Truth At All Costs
by The Dork of York
Summary: Clara Tyrell was intrinsically honest, which makes court an odd place to find her—and as a spy no less.  But there she is, stuck in a balancing act between her family, her secret husband, her loyalty to the crown, her faith... and her own integrity.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Truth At All Costs (or, Too Many Thomases)

**Author:** Dork of York

**Rating:** PG-13/T (at least for now; it may change)

**Summary: **Lady Clara Tyrell was an intrinsically honest person, which is no easy thing to be at the court of Henry VIII, let alone as a spy in the employ of Thomas Cromwell. With a front-row seat to the English Reformation and a stake of her own in the changes, Clara finds herself in a balancing act between her family, her secret husband, her monarch, her faith... and her own integrity.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except Clara. The characters belong both to history, and to the creators of the show _The Tudors_, but not to me.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, I'm back!

(Hmm, it's funny to begin something with that line instead of ending it.)

Anyway, I'm back with my promised Tudor fic. But first, a few things you should know.

Now, I studied a lot (and I mean a lot) of English history and Reformation history when I was in college; I even took an English Reformation class in Oxford. I tell you this to establish my bona fides in regards to the history of the period. One of the things I enjoy most about watching the show _The Tudors_ is screaming at the television whenever I see an historical inaccuracy (and I see lots and lots of them). However, this fic is set in the show's 'verse, and will therefore contain a lot of those inaccuracies since I'm basing it on show canon and not actual history. Therefore, for example, Henry VIII is going to be Jonathan Rhys-Meyers (even though I know and you know that Henry VIII looked nothing like JRM) and he'll have had one sister who was Margaret who had been Queen of Portugal and thereafter married the Duke of Suffolk (even though it was Mary who did that, and she was Queen of France and not Portugal). You get the picture. Show canon. The inclusion of these inaccuracies doesn't mean I don't know what really happened; it just means I'm going with what the show said and not what's historically accurate. Of course, I don't claim to know everything (I know next to nothing about legal process of the time, nor anything about Tudor-era London) and if you do spot something I got wrong that wasn't wrong on purpose, I beseech you to let me know so I can correct it.

Also, Thomas Cromwell is going to be playing a pretty big part in this fic. One of my new favourite books is _Wolf Hall_ by Hilary Mantel, in which Cromwell is the protagonist. The Cromwell in this fic will be a lot like Mantel's Cromwell, whom I don't own and, alas, don't get credit for creating. If you haven't read _Wolf Hall_, I totally recommend it. It's a great book, and there's some fantastic funny bits. But I don't own that either, and am acknowledging my debt to Ms. Mantel for her influence.

I think that's about it. Sorry for rambling too much, and onto the story! It picks up around the end of episode 7 or the start of episode 8 in season 1.

* * *

**Prologue:**

_September 1528_

A Welshman he had known long ago once remarked, _After the first death, there is no other_. And while the man had been fairly deep in his cups at the time, his words had merit.

Thomas Cromwell remembered those words now, repeating them silently to himself as he moved through London, coming home to Shoreditch from Whitehall. It was a changed city from the he was used to inhabiting; instead of a bustling, colourful mass of humanity, it was now a sombre, grieving, black-clad town, shrouded with smoke and bereft of the usual commotion. And no wonder; the city had been hard hit by the most recent, virulent outbreak of the sweating sickness this past summer. No one had been spared, high or low—even Cardinal Wolsey, his patron, had fallen sick. Wolsey had survived; unfortunately, Cromwell's daughters did not.

That was why he remembered so clearly that Welshman's words about there being no deaths after the first. It rather felt like that, truly; there had been one death after another after another. The past year seemed as though it had been one long march of death, and whatever organ did his grieving (his heart, perhaps?) was utterly exhausted.

The Cromwell family, like London, had been laid low by the sickness. Last summer, in the plague, he'd lost his wife Elizabeth, his sister Kat, and her husband Morgan. And now, with the latest, most virulent outbreak of the sweat, he'd lost his sister Bet, Bet's son John, Liz's sister Joan, and his own daughters Anne and Grace. The losses, coming swiftly one after the other, left Thomas feeling empty. Elizabeth's death, more than a year ago now, had gutted him at the time, leaving an empty ache in his chest which only time was beginning to dull. But he didn't seem to be able to summon the same kind of fierce, gut-rending anguish for the following deaths; perhaps because he was worn out from grieving, or perhaps because he got used to the loss. Perhaps both. After the first death, there had been no other, and now he was left feeling as though he was hollow from the neck down.

He entered the house and let a servant relieve him of his coat and his chain of office, though he held onto the thick folio of papers. Thomas still half-expected to see Liz coming down the stairs to chide him for the lateness of the hour, or hear the galumphing steps of Anne and Grace as they rushed to greet him. The echoing silence of the house made that empty place in his heart ache, especially since his son Gregory (and the last child he had living) was away at Cambridge. But he shoved it away, and focussed on the present. Grieving over the past would serve no purpose.

Divested of his outer wrappings, Thomas ascended the stairs to his office. The night was young enough that he could still get some work done. He had plenty to see to, after all; the kingdom was still recovering from a deadly summer, during which the government had ground to a standstill. In addition, preparations were underway for the long-awaited arrival of Cardinal Campeggio and the opening of the trial regarding the King's marriage. As the King's secretary, Thomas had more than enough work to fill his barren days and his empty nights without even taking into account his own affairs: his legal practise, the clothier's trade he inherited from his late wife, the business of running the household—which, though diminished, still contained his nephew Richard Williams, his nieces Alice and Joan, and Gregory when he was home from his studies—and his more dangerous activities with and for the Reforming cause.

Yes, there was business enough to occupy his time. It would have to suffice, hereafter, since he had little else left to him. And if the loneliness of his empty, decimated house made that gnawing ache in his chest worse... well, he'd have the rest of his life to become accustomed to it, wouldn't he?

* * *

**Chapter 1:**

_October 1528_

Lady Clara Tyrell was upset.

No, she thought to herself as she flitted down the stairs, slipping out the door with nothing but the swish of her skirts to mark her passing, upset was too mild a word for the moment. She was... angry.

She wafted noiselessly through the garden, avoiding the gardeners, whom she could hear on the other side of the hedge, making a beeline for the gate which led out into the pastures as she corrected her mental phrasing again. 'Angry' was still too mild a word. Furious was better. Enraged, even. Ready to mount a horse and ride to London and tear George Spencer (whoever he was) apart with her bare hands.

And for Lady Clara Tyrell, that was saying something.

With Ardley Castle behind her and no one within earshot, Clara hiked up her skirts and started running, feeling the long grasses whip against her legs as she made for the forest and the clearing which she had claimed for her own. It was a quiet, solitary spot, surrounded by trees and brush and distant from any sources of water; thus, it was not a part of the forest frequented by hunters or animals or lovers or anyone aside from herself. It had been her secret sanctuary from the first time she'd discovered it, when first she came to Leicestershire as wife to Sir Robert Tyrell, overwhelmed by the changes in her life and unsure of the people in her new home. And now, five years later, she sorely needed its silence and its serenity again, since death had robbed her of just about every other support. Her family—said support—had been decimated.

The past year had been a bad one, with one loss after another. It began with the death of her sister Rosamond to childbed fever in the summer of 1527. This blow was followed by the loss of her mother-in-law Elizabeth Tyrell to the plague shortly thereafter. That winter, the son Rosamond bore died, following his mother to the grave, and not three months ago she had been forced to miss her mother Mary's funeral due to the fact that she'd had to bury her husband Robert and her daughter Constance. They had all of them died in the outbreak of the sweating sickness during this most recent summer, which had laid low the whole country. Clara had been sick herself—according to her sister-in-law Marion, she'd nearly died on the very eve of her twenty-fifth birthday. She didn't know if that was true, but she had been terribly weak afterwards, and it had taken her nearly a month to build back her strength... strength which she had sorely needed.

After all, upon the death of her husband, the management of the Tyrell lands—her son's inheritance—was left in her hands. It was now up to her to oversee the family's holdings—which were rather extensive, with properties in Leicestershire and Warwickshire—until her son came of age, in addition to managing the lands that made up her jointure and running the household at Ardley Castle which they were all living in. And since Arthur was now only just four, she would be doing all these things for a very long time, and would have many years to accustom herself to being, essentially, the man of the house.

At least, that's what she'd thought.

She supposed, as she reached the edge of the forest and barrelled right on in without slowing, dodging around trees and feeling her skirts catch on saplings and the twigs and fallen trees, her speed fuelled by the fire of her fury, that it was true, what they said: when you thought things couldn't get worse... they did.

Clara slowed her pace as the forest grew thicker, shoving her way through bushes and dry brush and winding around the trees until she reached the massive walnut tree on the ridge in the forest which marked the spot as hers. She leaned against the trunk of the walnut tree—her walnut tree—breathing heavily from her run and feeling the skin on her shins sting; she'd probably scratched her legs bloody when she came through the brush, and she didn't want to know what her dress looked like right now. She didn't care, though; instead, Clara stooped to pick up a walnut. She held it in the palm of her hand for a moment, rubbing her thumb along the rough green surface as she panted from exertion, before she straightened suddenly and flung the unripe nut into the forest with all the strength she could muster. This projectile was followed by another, and another, and another, until she was scrabbling in the dirt to find more walnuts, or rocks, or sticks, or clods of dirt... anything she could use to vent her anger.

And the day had started out so pleasantly.

She had developed a routine after the death of her husband which had become comforting, like a soft blanket or the cover of a well-worn book. She would wake shortly after dawn, when the sun shone through the windows (like it had today). She would ring for her maid and dress before going down to breakfast (like she had today). She would eat with Marion and Arthur, spending a little bit of time with her son before she left him to his aunt's care (like she did today). Then she would go into the study and see to estate matters until late afternoon (like she did today... although, to be honest, Clara spent at least as much time learning how to manage the land as she spent actually managing it; she had been educated—more educated than most women were, truth be told, given her penchant for reading—but no one had ever taught her how to run an estate, since no one had ever expected that she'd need to), after which she would spend the rest of the day in the nursery with her son. When Arthur was younger, she would read him books and play with him; now that he was nearly four, she oversaw his first lessons, teaching him his letters and beginning Latin.

Those afternoons were the very best part of her days; when she was with Arthur and Marion in the nursery, the heavy burdens of grief and responsibility fell away, and Clara could pretend for a moment that everything was fine, that little Constance was in the nursery having a nap and Robin was out hunting and Mother Bess was upstairs sewing, pretend that she hadn't lost so much and didn't need to shoulder a responsibility that was so important to so many people (the tenants, her sister, her son, herself, the shades of her husband and his mother) and for which she felt so unprepared.

She wouldn't get that afternoon in the nursery now. Not only had she removed herself elsewhere to lose her temper—it wouldn't do for the servants or for Arthur to see Lady Tyrell having a hissy fit (especially since Arthur was of the age where he would throw such fits himself, and clever enough to reason that if his mother could have a tantrum then so could he; there'd be no living with him after that)—but she knew her enjoyment of the day was a lost cause. Besides, there would be much work to do once she returned to Ardley; she wouldn't let them do this to her without a fight, and she needed to prepare for it.

The source of all the turmoil which had so upset Clara's routine and equilibrium was lying back in the castle on Robin's desk. (Well, technically, it was now Clara's desk, but it still felt as though it belonged to her husband. After all, he'd been the one using it for years, whereas she had only taken over three months ago. It still felt as though she was intruding every time she sat down before it, and she half expected Robin to come through the door and ask her, with that bemused smile on his face, what she was doing at his desk.) It was a letter, a letter from the Inns of Court in London. It informed Lady Tyrell that Arthur Tyrell's wardship was to be bestowed on one George Spencer.

In short, she was going to lose her son.

There were of course more nuances to the situation than that, but Clara was in no frame of mind to appreciate them, nor was she positive that she'd understand them if she did. She was clever and well-read, but she wasn't a lawyer. All she understood at the moment—and she felt she needed to understand—was that they were going to take her son away from her, despite the fact that Sir Robert's will had left everything in his wife's hands. They were going to take her only child away from her, and give him to someone else to raise. Someone else would teach him Latin and sums and help him with his reading, someone else would dress him and brush his hair and tuck him into bed, someone else would play with him and tell him stories and comfort him after his nightmares. Someone else would do everything that his mother ought to do, and it wasn't fair. Who were they to take a child from his mother, especially when everyone else was dead?

Merely thinking about Arthur being taken from her was enough to reignite Clara's fury, which had begun to subside due to tiredness, and she once again stooped to grab anything she might throw. She kept throwing walnuts, rocks, sticks, and clods of dirt into the forest until her arm ached from exertion, her fingertips were raw, and there was enough dirt on her hands and under her nails to plant flowers. Finally, her strength—if not her anger—was spent, and she plopped onto the ground and settled herself against the trunk of her walnut tree. She picked up an unripe walnut, still cased in its green husk, and rolled it between her fingers. And there Clara rested as for a time, toying with the unripe walnut as her mind spun over possibilities, trying to find a way to keep her son.

The shadows were beginning to grow long in the mid-afternoon sun when Clara felt mistress enough of her feelings to return to the castle. She had also developed the beginnings of a plan to fight for her son, and she couldn't set it in motion out in the woods. It was time to go home. So she picked herself up off the ground, tossed the walnut to the ground, and made her way out of the forest.

As she drew closer to the edge of the wood, however, a voice calling for her caught her attention, ringing faintly through the trees. "Clara! Clara, are you in there?"

Clara recognised Marion's voice, and stifled a sigh. She glanced up at the sky—she hadn't been gone for more than a couple of hours, had she?—before changing her course towards where she could hear her sister-in-law shouting into the forest. After a short walk, Clara discovered Marion and one of the manservants tromping along one of the well-worn hunting paths. She leaped lightly over a fallen tree and hurried to join them, catching up to Marion in time to hear her mutter darkly, "When I find you, Clara, I'm going to tie a bell around your neck."

"I wish you wouldn't," Clara replied mildly, having long been used to this particular threat from not only Marion, but also from her brother, various friends, and her late husband as well.

Marion screamed at the top of her lungs, leaping nearly a foot into the air, and Clara winced as the shrill sound of her sister-in-law's screech grated on her sensitive ears. "Mother Mary, Clara, don't do that!" Marion cried, spinning around and placing her hand to her heart. "Where on earth have you been? And what have you been doing? You're absolutely covered in dirt! And alone, too! Really, Clara, I've been beside myself trying to find out where on earth you disappeared to!"

Clara looked down at her dress, registering for the first time the dirt and bracken staining the black cloth. "I suppose I am a bit messy," she agreed, brushing at her skirts before giving it up as a bad job.

Taking a handkerchief from her sleeve while huffing in exasperation, Marion grabbed Clara's hand and tried to clean the dirt away while turning them around and dragging her along the path out of the woods. "You're absolutely filthy, Clara. What were you thinking? I've been looking for you for nearly three hours! No one knew where you were, no one had seen you leave, you just vanished, and I wish you wouldn't do that. Please, for our peace of mind, make some noise when you move," she grumbled fiercely.

Clara let Marion's complaints wash over her and allowed the taller woman to drag her out of the forest without a word. Robert Tyrell, like his sister, had repeatedly entreated Clara to make more noise, as had the mistress of the maids in the Duchess of Norfolk's household and the Duchess herself. However, it had been Clara's parents who had demanded quiet in their house and from their children. The Gage children—Benedict, Clara, and Rosamond—had learned early on to be very, very quiet, lest they draw the attention of their father, John Gage (from whom Clara had inherited her acute hearing), and receive a whipping that would leave them sore for days. It had even become a game for them: walk along the gallery or across the chapel or through the garden without making any noise. If the others could hear your passage, you'd lost. And of the three children, it was Clara who had most often been the victor. She'd taken the lessons learned in that game so much to heart that even in households where such silence was not required she couldn't quite break the habit of stepping lightly and speaking softly, no matter how often she was entreated otherwise.

Besides, a small, mischievous part of her enjoyed startling her family and friends.

Marion was still rambling on, chiding Clara for her behaviour and continuing to ask questions about where she had been and what she'd been doing and why she'd been wallowing in the dirt but not pausing to hear any answers; she hadn't let go of Clara's hand, either, and was practically dragging her through the pasture towards the castle as the servant she'd brought trotted discreetly along behind them. Clara was annoyed, but didn't raise a fuss; she never did, no matter how often she wished Marion might talk less, listen more, and perhaps not cling so tightly. Marion was, after all, her sister—the only sister she had left now—and they had to live together. No point in destroying the peace over little vexations which were easily enough ignored.

"...and Arthur was very upset; I could barely get him down for his nap," Marion went on. "He kept crying for his mother."

That did sting a little, and Clara felt a bit guilty. But the guilt was quickly subsumed by the knowledge that if she didn't act quickly her son would be taken away, and thereafter cry for his mother with no hope of relief. The thought only fuelled her determination to fight the court's decision. "I'll apologise later," Clara said firmly, as she and Marion passed through the garden gate. "Please bring him to me when he wakes."

Marion's lovely face crinkled in confusion, and she slowed to a halt near the hedge. "Bring him to you?" she repeated. "Will you not be in the nursery with us?"

Clara slipped her hand free from Marion's grasp and turned to face her sister, struck by her beauty as she did so. The sun, which was now beginning to set in earnest, gilded Marion's golden hair and made her pale skin glow as though it had been brushed with pearl. She was a beautiful woman, was Marion, and Clara felt for a moment the sting of her own plainness, aware of her skinny frame and her mousey brown hair. But she shrugged it off with the ease of long practise and focussed on the more important matters. "I have letters to write," she replied. "I'll see you at dinner."

"Are these letters more important than your son?" Marion challenged, reaching out to grab Clara's arm and hold her in place. "This is so unlike you, Clara—what is going on?" she demanded, her periwinkle-blue eyes worried.

"I received a letter today from London," Clara replied, after a pause to make sure Marion actually wanted to hear the answer. "They're going to take Arthur away from me."

"What?" Marion gasped. "How? Why?"

"His wardship is being given elsewhere, apparently. I don't know why, but I don't mean to lie back and let it happen," Clara vowed ferociously.

Marion allowed Clara to re-enter the castle unimpeded thereafter. However, she refused to allow Clara out of her sight as Clara changed her dress, washed her hands, and slathered a salve on the multitude of scratches she'd collected on her legs. She also followed Clara into the study, and while Clara settled down with quill and parchment Marion took up a position behind the chair her sister was sitting in, practically looming over the shorter woman.

"To whom will you write?" Marion asked as Clara sharpened her quill.

Clara paused, wishing she could tell Marion to stop hovering; though she knew who was behind her and that Marion meant her no harm, she couldn't stop the creeping, crawling feeling up her spine. "To my brother Benedict—he's still in Cardinal Wolsey's household. And to my friend Agnes—Lady Agnes, rather. I think her husband is an officer in the king's household, and I know the family keeps a London house. I'll also write to Meg—that is, Margaret Roper, Thomas More's daughter—and see if she'll speak to her father on my behalf. Actually, I should write to Sir Thomas as well," she mused, flipping open the top of her inkwell. "He's a lawyer; he might have some good advice."

"Calling in all favours?" Marion inquired, a smile apparent in her voice.

"Yes," Clara agreed, putting Marion's presence out of her mind and bending her attention to the letters she needed to write. She was pretty much calling upon anyone and everyone she knew who had any influence in London. Thankfully, she had spent nearly ten years in the city, and knew at least a few people.

Benedict was her older brother, and her only sibling left after Rosamond's death. He had been in Wolsey's household for years; Ben would surely help her, and after so long with the Cardinal he would surely be able to speak to Wolsey on her behalf, or perhaps even convince his Eminence to see her. Lady Agnes Sedley, née Heywood, had been one of her best friends in the Duchess of Norfolk's household, and if her husband Lord Sedley had influence perhaps Agnes could convince him to promote Clara's cause to the king. At the very least, Agnes could provide housing for the Clara and her son while they were in London. And then the Mores—Meg Roper, and her father Sir Thomas. Clara felt they were some of the better weapons in her arsenal... if they'd help her. She wasn't close to them like she was to Ben and Agnes—she was far too afraid of Thomas More to desire any true closeness even with Meg, who could've otherwise been the best of friends—but she was known to the family. She'd dined at the Chelsea house once or twice before her marriage, and she wrote regularly to Margaret Roper (they talked mostly of books and languages), and though she was wary of him she reckoned Sir Thomas was fond enough of her—he'd certainly seemed amused by her when she was still Mistress Mouse (which was what the other ladies of the Duchess' household had called her).

Normally, she wouldn't dream of putting herself forward in this way—especially not with the Mores. In fact, the thought of demanding things of these people made her cringe inwardly. But what choice did she have? If she didn't use every resource, every friend at her disposal, she could lose her son. That was something far worse than any momentary embarrassment about asking for favours.

_Don't ask, don't get_, Clara reminded herself as she wrote. And she was willing to do anything and everything to ensure that her son remained where he belonged: with her.

* * *

That night, after putting Arthur to bed, Clara excused herself to her bedchamber, rather than sitting up with Marion. After she brushed her hair and donned her nightgown, she dismissed the maid, wanting to be totally alone. Once the chamber was empty and she couldn't hear anyone else in the adjoining room or in the hallway, she went to the side of the bed and knelt on the floor, reaching for the walnut chest she stashed under the bed. She dragged it out, and then went to her jewel case for the key, which was hidden under a string of pearls Robin gave her after Arthur was born. She then went back to the walnut chest, unlocked it, and lifted the lid, allowing the candlelight to dance across the creamy parchment of years and years worth of letters.

But then Clara removed the false top, setting it—and all the letters—to the side, thus revealing the true contents of the coffer: books. She started taking the books out and setting them on the bed, seeking a specific volume. Had there been another person in the room to see the titles of those books, it would've been immediately apparent as to why Lady Tyrell went to such pains to hide them. It would also explain why she feared Sir Thomas More, and avoided intimacy with the family. Every single one of the books in the walnut chest was banned in England, and would brand her as a heretic and see her sent to the stake to burn. Most of them had been penned by Martin Luther, but there was also Tyndale's English Bible, which was what Clara sought. Once she found it, she carefully placed all the books back into the chest and replaced the false top. She didn't lock the chest, nor shove it back under the bed. Instead, she climbed into bed with her English Bible and opened it to the book of Matthew, poring over the pages in the flickering candlelight.

When she came to the passage wherein Jesus ordered the fig tree to wither, her attention was caught by words which had acquired a new significance to her of late. "Iesus answered and sayde vnto the: Verely I saye vnto you yf ye shall have faith and shall not dout ye shall not only do that which I have done to the fygge tree: but also yf ye shall saye vnto this moutayne take thy silfe awaye and cast thy silfe into the see it shall be done. And whatsoever ye shall axe in prayer (if ye beleve) ye shall receave it."

That passage resonated with her, and Clara kept it in mind as she finished her reading, closed the Bible, and once again locked away and concealed her cache of heretical books, knowing that it was even more important now that no hint of unorthodoxy touch her, especially since she was going to beg help from Thomas More and Cardinal Wolsey. Thankfully, very few people had any idea of Clara's Lutheran sympathies. Marion knew only that Clara had read some of Luther's writings. She had been utterly horrified by the same; thus, Clara had no inclination to enlighten her sister-in-law otherwise about her beliefs. No, her faith was a private thing, and would have to remain that way.

After she shoved the chest back under the bed, Clara remained on her knees on the floor, and recalled the words of the gospel she'd read this evening. _And whatsoever ye shall axe in prayer (if ye beleve) ye shall receave it._ And thus, she prayed. She prayed with all the strength in her body, prostrating herself before the Almighty, begging fervently for the strength and wisdom to carry out the legal battle for her son. She prayed that her family and friends would reply swiftly to her letters and come to her aid. She prayed that the Inns of Court would be sympathetic, and prayed that God would hear her prayers and allow her son—her only living child, since He had seen fit to call Constance to his heavenly embrace—to stay with her.

Eventually, Clara felt hollowed out—but in a more pleasant way, utterly different from the grief that had gutted her after the deaths of her husband and child. This was lightening, as though she had poured out her cares to God and been relieved of them. She felt... hopeful, peaceful. She had given her problems—and her anger—to God; she had faith that He would help her. A passage from one of her Lutheran books came to mind: _Faith is a living, bold trust in God's grace, so certain of __God's favour that it would risk death a thousand times trusting in it_.

_I must have faith_, Clara told herself as she got up off the floor and went to snuff the candles. _I will trust in God to help me, and give me the strength I need to fight for my son._

But that night she dreamed, and in her dreams Arthur was gone from her. Arthur was gone, and she was walking a narrow path over a great chasm so deep she could not see the bottom. She knew to fall into it was a fate even worse than death, that she would fall forever away from everything she loved, and she was afraid, for the path was treacherous and her steps unsure. But there was someone beside her, though she could not see them. She felt safe with them, whoever it was; they held her hand firmly and would not let her neither stumble nor fall for they loved her—whoever it was at her side, they loved her.

When she awoke the next morning, that was what she most remembered from her dream: the feeling that she was protected and guided through danger by someone who cared for her. But the memory lasted barely ten minutes; soon enough, Clara put the entire dream—the narrow path, the chasm, the absence of her only son, even the presence of the person who guided her steps—out of her mind as she threw herself into the preparations for their departure to London and the legal battle which awaited her there. If it didn't tell her how to keep her son, she had no time for it.

* * *

Two weeks later, Clara was being jolted along the road from Leicestershire to London. Arthur was seated beside her, playing with a wooden horse, and Marion was in the seat opposite, looking pained and uncomfortable. Clara was certain her expression was a mirror of Marion's, especially since the high-pitched rattling of the carriage axels was insinuating itself into her temples and giving her a pounding headache.

And they had four or five more days of this.

Clara closed her eyes and tried to ignore the annoying noises, focusing instead on Arthur's soft murmurs as he played, listening for his breaths as she went over her preparations inwardly. She had been over the account books for the household before she left, and had done her best to economise and squeeze every spare shilling out of the Tyrell holdings. Clara had no idea how much this venture would cost or how long it would take, but she knew it might be expensive, and thus made sure to drum up as much cash as she could before her departure. Marion had seen to the packing, which Clara was thankful for; she had enough to worry about.

Benedict had replied to her letter, promising to speak to Wolsey on her behalf. Agnes had also written, vowing her support and offering lodgings for however long Clara was in London. She hadn't yet heard back from Margaret Roper or Thomas More, but she had directed the servants to send all her post to Lord Sedley's house in London; hopefully she would hear from the Mores, father and daughter, soon enough. She could also seek them out in person, but would prefer to wait for a reply before doing that.

So, Clara posited, she would arrive in London on a Tuesday, God willing. Wednesday she would spend some time with Agnes, and seek out Benedict to hear any advice he could give her. She had a mind to ask for a lot of it—about the law, about the costs of this enterprise, about banks from which she might be able to borrow money if it was more than she could afford. Hopefully Ben would have information for her, and could also tell her when and if she would be received by Cardinal Wolsey. Thursday, if she could slip away from Marion and Agnes (possibly by lying, and telling them she was going to see a banker), Clara was inclined to go seek out the bookseller near the Strand from whom she got her Lutheran books, and see if anything had been published recently. But that was only a theoretical scheduling, especially where the books were concerned; Clara knew how careful she had to be. Further plans would have to wait until she was in possession of more information. But the campaign was underway, at least.

"Mama, are we there yet?" Arthur asked innocently, tugging on her sleeve.

Clara opened her eyes and glanced over at her son, who was staring up at her with the brown eyes he'd inherited from her. He smiled hopefully when he saw he had her attention, and Clara felt a pang in her heart. There was no doubt that Arthur was her son; he had her eyes, her brown hair, her pale skin, her heart-shaped face, and her unfortunate nose (straight, but for a bump in the middle). His smile, though... Arthur's smile was Robin's, and a source therefore of both pleasure and pain. Pain for her loss, but a reminder that there was at least a little bit of her kind, loving husband left in the world.

"No, dear heart, we're not there yet," Clara replied, hoping fervently that Arthur would be able to be patient. If he was to spend the next four days asking if they were there yet, it would make for a very, very long trip.

"Why are we going to London?" he asked again, shifting in his seat to face her.

"You know why we're going to London," Clara said, reaching out to ruffle his dark hair.

She had explained to her son why they were going to stay in London a day before they left, and the day they left, and yesterday as well. She knew Arthur knew and understood what was going on; he just liked to hear the stories he liked over and over again. There had been a time not too long ago when he'd demanded to hear about King Arthur and the sword in the stone every night for two weeks, and now he seemed to enjoy listening to a simplified account of how his mother was going to fight a man in London.

"There is a man who wants to take you away from me," she told her son, making a very complicated issue as simple as she could. "And we must go to London to make sure he does not. There are magic words which will let me win, but I don't know what they are; for that, I have to talk to Uncle Benedict, and he will help me meet men who can tell me the right words. Then, we will fight the man who wants to take you away; at the right time, I will speak the magic words, and banish him forever. And you will stay with me and Aunt Marion, where you belong."

Clara punctuated the tale with a kiss to Arthur's forehead, and he smiled brightly—Robin's smile, and she smiled wistfully in return. "I know you'll find the words, Mama," he said cheerfully. "We have lots of books. Will you read one to me?"

"After your Latin lesson," Clara replied, reaching under the seat for the basket of books she'd brought. Arthur made a face, but submitted to his lesson; Clara was teaching him Latin out of the Old Testament, which was full of battles and heroes, and was thus far more enjoyable than how she'd learnt Latin (which was from a resentful priest and the church liturgy). After the lesson, she told him a story about Camelot and King Arthur, letting her voice sooth him until he fell asleep with his head on her lap.

"He's your son, through and through," Marion remarked amusedly. "Always wanting a book or a story."

"I hope he'll be so easily placated two days from now," Clara replied wryly.

"Why did you bring him along?" Marion wondered. "It's a long journey for such a little boy."

"I want him with me," Clara said simply, brushing her fingers gently across her son's untroubled brow. She refused to elaborate any further out loud, as though verbalising her fears would conjure them, but inwardly added, _if I lose, and they take him away from me, I want to know I spent as much time with him as I could before I lost him_.

Fear stung her again, coiling in her gut like a serpent, but Clara closed her eyes again and leaned back, focussing on the feeling of her son's soft skin under her hand. She silently prayed for strength, giving her fear up to God and beseeching Him to help her. Peace was harder to reclaim in the daylight, but Clara reminded herself to have faith. Benedict had promised to help her, and Agnes had promised to help her, and she had faith that God would help her. There was nothing else she could do until she got to London, at any rate.

They'd probably arrive on Tuesday, Clara posited, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, keeping her eyes closed and listening to the rattle of the coach. Wednesday she'd go to find Benedict, and spend time with Agnes, and then Thursday...

Without being aware of it, Clara slipped down into sleep.

Marion watched them slumber, mother and son, and smiled softly at the sight they made. Arthur took after his mother so very much. Poor Constance, Clara's late daughter, had taken after her paternal family, with Robert's fairer hair and blue eyes. But Arthur was Clara's son, through and through—even beyond their similar looks. He listened to things like his mother, and watched things like his mother, and would probably grow to be just as clever and bookish as his mother, if the boy's constant desire for stories was any indication. Marion hoped that one day Arthur would grow to be as good a man as Clara was a woman. Or would Spencer, whoever he was, mould the sweet little boy into something completely different?

She hoped Clara was right, that her sister-in-law could count on the support of such powerful men as Wolsey and More, and that their aid would deliver Arthur's care back into her hands. They had lost so much of late that Marion didn't want to think of what losing her son as well would do to Clara. And that which hurt Clara hurt Marion as well.

Marion reached out and softly touched Clara's brown hair, stroking gently, before letting her fingers ghost down her face, tracing the lines of her beloved countenance before coming to rest on her soft lips. Marion could feel the gentleness of Clara's breath against her fingertips, and fought down a surge of longing to do... she knew not what. Kiss her? Hold her? Drop to her knees on the floor of the carriage and rest her head on Clara's lap next to Arthur, basking in the presence of the two people she loved best in all the world? Or slide her hands up Clara's graceful legs, under her skirts, feeling the lithe muscles under the smooth skin of her calves before moving upwards to the tender skin behind her knees and thence up to Clara's soft, soft thighs...

She shook her golden head fiercely, as though to unseat the sinful thoughts therein. And they were sinful, Marion knew that. Such desires belonged only to the marriage bed... and only directed towards men.

Marion had known for years that there was something strange within her. She'd known it when she realised her preference was to gaze at the fall of long hair or the swell of pale breasts, rather than appreciate a strong calf or a pair of broad shoulders. But she ignored it, tamped it down, knowing it was not the way of things, too ashamed to even confess to the priest. She hoped it was something that would vanish in time—perhaps with her marriage.

And Marian Tyrell had been married once, years ago. She had been Lady Marion Aldridge for five years, and five years only before the marriage was annulled, due to its barrenness. Perhaps that had been her fault—she had never been able to muster passion or even fondness for her husband. Part of her had therefore been very relieved when the marriage was ended, though she had keenly felt the sting of shame at being sent back to her family in disgrace. Her father had been dead by that point, so she had escaped the worst of the humiliation, but Joan, her brother's wife at the time, had been cruel enough to her barren sister-in-law, now a drain on the family's finances.

She had resigned herself to living a cold, staid life off her brother's charity, making herself useful in whatever ways she could. But then Joan had died, and shortly after their son Henry also passed on. Robin needed to marry again and beget another heir, and Marion had steeled herself for another cold, indignant sister-in-law who would resent her presence in the house and do her best to marginalise her.

Instead, she got Clara.

Looking back, Marion thought it had been inevitable that she fall in love with Clara from the very the moment she saw her, wide-eyed and obviously intimidated, trying to cling without clinging to Robin. She had been everything Marion wanted in a sister—she was sweet and kind and warm and open and seemed happy to have another woman in the household. She had also been tentative and timid in a way that left Marion wanting desperately to comfort and cosset her, and beautiful in a subtle way that was easy to overlook—too easy, if Clara's insecurity about her looks was any judge. And thus Marion found herself coveting her brother's wife, found herself in love and in lust with another woman—which was a secret she would hopefully reveal only to the priest who came for her last confession.

But she did love Clara—loved her devotedly. Marion's deepest hope at the moment was that Clara would get Arthur's wardship, and that they would retire back to Ardley Castle and live out their lives like a family. Clara would not remarry, Arthur would grow up under the care of his mother and his aunt, and Marion... Marion would have Clara and Arthur and nearly everything she wanted. Everything she wanted that wouldn't damn her.

And so the Tyrell carriage rattled along the road to London...

* * *

**A/N part deux:** So there we have the prologue and chapter 1. Woo-hoo!

_Historical notes:_ Technically, Cromwell was still in Wolsey's service at this point in history, and not the King's secretary. Also, Dylan Thomas hadn't yet been born, and would've never had a chance to meet Thomas Cromwell. :D (Yes, I was anachronistic, but I love Thomas' poetry and it was so very appropriate.) I think those are the only inaccuracies in this chapter.

Anyway, if you enjoyed the start of this fic, let me know! I'm rubbish at beginnings—this chapter went through three versions before I found one I liked to actually post—and I'm not sure how well it went. Was I too wordy? Was there too much information to process? Was there too much telling and not enough showing? Please, give me some feedback!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Heyo, everybody! I'm glad everyone is liking the fic thus far; here's some more, which I hope is likewise enjoyed. Sorry about the long wait; I work retail, and it's the holiday season, so I've been having to work a lot. And then I was going to update on Saturday, but my computer was ravaged by this horrible virus and I had to give it to the Geek Squad for a couple of days so they could fix it. It's all nice now, but it was kind of a bugger at the time.

Now, for ficness!

* * *

**Chapter 2:**

_10 November 1528_

It was hard for Benedict Gage to catch Cardinal Wolsey alone for even a moment, even though they dwelled in the same household and though Benedict had been a faithful servant of the Cardinal for more than a decade. Though perhaps it was only because Ben had been such a longstanding retainer that he was able to see Wolsey at all. The man was, after all, utterly consumed with the business of the king's Great Matter in addition to the running of the country, and he had little time for anything else. But Wolsey had found a little time to talk to him, and Benedict was glad of it.

"What can I do for you, Master Gage?" Wolsey asked with a smile, after Benedict had entered his study and kissed his hand.

Benedict stood and smiled sheepishly. "Your Eminence, I am here on behalf of my sister, Lady Clara Tyrell. She was widowed in the sweat of this past summer, and now her son's wardship is to be given to George Spencer, of Berkshire," he explained. "My sister means to fight for custody of her son in the courts, and requests your Eminence's support, assistance, and any advice that might be helpful."

Wolsey sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. "I see," was all he said in return. After a long moment of silence, in which Benedict fought the urge to fidget, the Cardinal spoke again. "This is a complicated situation, Master Gage."

"How so, your Eminence?" Benedict inquired curiously. The situation didn't seem at all complicated to him; Clara was asking for help, and if Wolsey agreed to support her, she'd win her case without problems. Wolsey was Lord Chancellor, after all, and the most powerful man in England, after the King, and he'd surely agree to help such a loyal retainer as Benedict.

"I try to learn things about those who wish me ill, which is why I know that George Spencer is related to William Carey, the recently departed husband of Mary Boleyn," Wolsey explained, giving a sage nod when Benedict winced at the magic name—_Boleyn_. "I trust you comprehend the difficulty."

Benedict did not, actually, comprehend the difficulty. He was not a stupid man, nor an inept courtier, but he did not always understand the subtleties of the world around him, neither able to pinpoint nor interpret them with the same alacrity of, for example, Thomas Wolsey or even Thomas More. Thus, he was aware that the involvement of the Boleyn family—Wolsey's sworn enemies—in Clara's wardship case was going to complicate things, but he couldn't contrive an explanation as to how. All he could do was smooth out his face, hoping that Wolsey didn't notice the expression of confusion which had been painted across his countenance before he pulled his courtier's mask over it, and later ask a discreet someone else to clarify the matter for him.

But of course Wolsey noticed his bafflement—Wolsey always noticed those little tells, being a far more worldly, canny courtier than Benedict Gage. "As Master Spencer is connected to the Boleyn family, he will have their support," the Cardinal explained patiently, with a kindly but condescending smile on his face and an amused twinkle in his pale blue eyes. "And if I support your sister, Master Gage, I will be setting myself against them."

'Will be setting himself against them'? Wolsey was already firmly set against the Boleyns, simply by being himself. Benedict knew this full well—half the country knew it full well—and therefore couldn't stop a slightly incredulous lift of his brows, though he thankfully held his tongue.

Thankfully, Wolsey didn't seem offended by Benedict's disbelief; rather, he was smiling indulgently. "With the opening of the legatine court in the new year, at the moment the Boleyns need me, and thus we have achieved something of a détente," Wolsey elaborated. "They despise me, and I have no love for them, but at the moment neither one of us can move against the other. But if I set myself against them... ah, if I set myself against them now, and over something so trivial as a wardship, that détente will go up in smoke, and it will make everything that much more difficult, which is something I cannot afford at present. Perhaps after the trial is over I could be of more help to you, but not now."

Benedict might not have been the smartest gentleman in London, but even he could understand what Wolsey was saying. "You can't help my sister and I, your Eminence?" he said, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice.

"Not openly, Master Gage, and I am sorry for it," Wolsey admitted, looking earnestly apologetic. "But I will help in what little ways I am able." That said, he reached for a sheet of parchment and a quill. "I shall direct your sister to some of the best legal minds I know," he promised, beginning to write. "I will write her these letters of introduction, and these other men shall help her, in my stead—and they shall certainly have no compunctions about doing so," he added wryly. "Tell her to go to Sir Thomas More, and Thomas Cromwell."

"Thomas More, and Thomas Cromwell," Benedict repeated. "Thank you, your Eminence."

"You're quite welcome, Master Gage," Wolsey replied warmly, still bent over the parchment. "You have been a loyal man of mine for many years; it would be a shame if I could nothing at all to help you. I seem to recall your sister, as well—you have two, correct?"

"Only one now," Benedict said quietly, crossing himself.

Wolsey echoed the gesture. "_Requiescat in pace_," he intoned perfunctorily, before returning to his writing. "I'm afraid I can only remember the one—the dark-haired maid on whose behalf you were always borrowing books. And who was always doing your Latin translations, as well," he added dryly, with a stern look.

Benedict grinned a little sheepishly, feeling his cheeks flush. He'd never been any good with Latin—he still wasn't, for that matter—and had often gone begging to his clever sister (that being Clara; she'd been the clever one, and Rosamond the beautiful one) for help. Apparently he hadn't been as subtle about doing so as he'd thought, if even the Cardinal himself had been aware of it and remembered years later. "That's Clara, your Eminence, Lady Tyrell as is," he confirmed. "I must own a measure of surprise at your memory. I did not think you ever met my sisters, nor would remember them if you had."

Wolsey's expression turned amused. "I had wanted to meet the person who was reading my books, and managed to catch your sister one afternoon before she departed. She was a sweet little thing, if shy. Very clever," he recalled. "I'm sorry I can't do more for her." The Cardinal finished writing the letters of introduction and applied his seal to the parchment. Once the wax had dried, he handed the letters to Benedict. "Please convey my apologies to Lady Tyrell, as well as my condolences for her loss," he requested.

Benedict bowed again, assuring his patron that he would carry the sentiments to Clara, and left the Cardinal's office. Once he was back in the hallway, he blew out of a breath and turned his steps towards the stables. Clara had probably arrived in London by now, and he was of a mind to go and see her. His duties were light at the moment, and it wasn't too arduous a ride from Hampton Court to Lord Sedley's house near Whitehall; he could make it in a couple of hours. He wouldn't be quite bringing the promise of overwhelming support that Clara had hoped for, but the promise of help from other quarters was better than no help at all.

Within the half-hour, Benedict Gage was off on the road to London.

* * *

Clara's calculations had been off; due to rain and the consequent state of the roads, they hadn't reached London on Tuesday. Today was Wednesday, and they would arrive at Lord Sedley's house in time for dinner. She silently but heartily thanked God as the carriage rattled into the yard, wanting nothing more than to get out of this cursed contraption.

"Praise God," Marion muttered, echoing Clara's thoughts.

Five days. Five days in a rattling, rocking box with a four-year-old who was becoming increasingly more fretful as the time passed. To be fair, Arthur had behaved well for the first two days—better than most four-year-old boys would, Clara allowed proudly. But by day three he was tired of being cooped up, and it got harder to keep him from sulking. By day five, there was no point in trying; at least as they reached the outskirts of London, Clara was able to amuse Arthur by having him look at the buildings. And now they'd arrived, and her son would be able to get out and run around.

Clara was the first to step out, needing to support herself on the door as her legs, now forced into movement after so long being immobile, protested by cramping. Soon enough, though, she was upright and helping Arthur down onto the ground. Her son needed no help, though; he was tottering around happily on the gravel path, running around in circles. "Don't go near the horses, Arthur!" Clara called, worried as one of her son's rotations came too near the front of the carriage.

As Marion stepped down onto the ground, Clara's ears pricked up, hearing footsteps on stone. And within moments, Lady Agnes Sedley emerged into the yard. She was dressed in a sky-blue gown that nearly matched her eyes and a cap studded with seed pearls, and as she stepped out into the sunlight her smile lit up her face. "Clara!" she cried happily. "You've arrived!"

"Agnes!" Clara smiled. She dropped a quick curtsey, but Agnes waved the deference away, coming down to embrace her friend.

"None of that, Mistress Mouse," she chided fondly. And Clara was too happy to be out of the carriage and to see her old friend to take umbrage at the application of that particular sobriquet, which she had so hoped would die a natural death after her marriage. Agnes went on brightly, "How are you, Clara? How was your journey?"

"Tired, and long," Clara replied, stifling a yawn and stretching her back a bit. Marion and Arthur had come up beside her, and Arthur was clinging to her skirts and looking apprehensively up at Agnes with huge brown eyes. "May I present my son, Arthur?" she asked, placing her hand on her son's head. "And my sister-in-law, Mistress Marion Tyrell?"

Agnes smiled at Marion. "Mistress Tyrell, how nice to meet you," she said kindly. "Clara writes of you often. And this is little Arthur! Clare, he looks just like you! How do you do, Master Tyrell?" she inquired warmly, bending to give her hand to the little boy.

Arthur, making Clara excessively proud, took Lady Agnes' hand and bowed over it. "Very well, thank you, Lady Agnes," he said politely, and then looked up at his mother for approval. Clara beamed down at him.

"What a sweet darling!" Agnes cried, leaning down to give Arthur a kiss. "Come now, dear boy, you shall share the nursery with my own son, and we have many fine toys for you to play with. Clara, I've had chambers made ready for you and your sister-in-law; go freshen up, and I'll be in the great hall when you're ready."

The promise of new toys brightened Arthur's outlook, as the promise of freshening up brightened his mother and aunt's, so the party moved indoors. Agnes had a fine house; as she'd said, Arthur was going to share with her son, and Clara and Marion had rooms of their own. Clara and Agnes settled Arthur into the nursery with young Henry (who was almost three, and having a nap at the moment), setting him up with a hobbyhorse and some blocks, and Clara was thereafter heartily glad to retire to her chamber and wash the dust of travel off her skin. She wanted to fall into bed and sleep, but there was too much to be done. So she washed up and changed her dress—still black, of course, but at least it was clean and fresh—before stopping back by the nursery. Arthur, as she'd expected, had fallen asleep, and she carried him to the bed and tucked him in beside Henry before wafting down to the great hall.

Lady Agnes was waiting in the great hall, as promised, with some platters of bread and cheese and ale. She smiled warmly when she saw Clara coming in. "Silent as always, I see," she remarked amusedly. "Sit down—you look exhausted."

"I am quite tired," Clara admitted, collapsing into a chair next to Agnes. "It's been a very long... week? Month? Year?" she tested, realising that all of them were true. She shook her head again and rubbed her eyes, giving Agnes a wry, tired smile. "It's been very long."

"I don't doubt it," Agnes agreed compassionately. "I'm sorry for your losses. It was a bad summer."

"It was," Clara murmured. "Did you hear about Sarah?"

"Yes," Agnes nodded, genuflecting sadly. "May she rest in peace. Only two of us left, now."

The "us" in question was the coterie that had formed while they were all serving as maids of honour in the Duchess of Norfolk's household. There had been four of them—Agnes Heywood, Sarah Bradshawe, Elizabeth Finch, and Clara Gage—and they had formed a little _salon_, reading books and talking of ideas and pretending to be humanists while the other maids of the household regarded them as though they were all a strange sort of bug. (It was thanks to Agnes and the others that Clara knew the Mores, actually; after reading _Utopia_, the four of them had managed to prevail upon the Duchess of Norfolk to introduce them to Thomas More.) One by one, they had all married and travelled to other parts of England, but they had written faithfully to each other as long as they were able. Bess, though, had died in childbed a few years ago, and now Sarah had fallen to the sweat. Only Agnes and Clara now remained.

Marion came down shortly thereafter, and the three women chatted companionably—though Agnes did most of the talking as she caught Clara up on the latest gossip from court, most of which was centred around the Lady Anne Boleyn, the newly-arrived Cardinal Campeggio, and the impending hearing of the king's marriage.

"I wonder if Cardinal Wolsey will have any time for me," Clara commented with a frown after the fount of Agnes' information had run dry. "He seems as though he might be very busy with other things."

Agnes opened her mouth to reply, but was forestalled when Benedict Gage was announced. "I suppose we'll find out," she said instead, standing to welcome her guest with a giddy sort of smile on her face.

Clara rolled her eyes. All her friends—except for Marion, come to think of it—made no secret of the fact that they thought her brother to be extremely handsome. Back before any of them had been married, Clara and Rosamond (who had eventually come to London as a maid of honour in the Duchess' household as well) had made a pact to ensure that Benedict was in the company of the other maids as little as possible since they had all flirted with him, and none more brazenly than Agnes. It seemed, given the flush in her cheeks and the gleam in her blue eyes, that marriage hadn't done much to dim her high spirits.

Clara didn't hear Benedict until he was nearly in the room, a moment or two before she saw him—the first time she'd laid eyes on her brother since Rosamond's wedding. And then there he was, striding carefully into the great hall, placing his feet softly as to make less noise, the way all John Gage's children did. His green eyes fixed on Clara instantly, and he smiled widely at her before turning to greet Lady Agnes first, as courtesy dictated. "Lady Agnes, it's always a pleasure," he said warmly. "Thank you for receiving me."

"You're quite welcome, Master Gage," Agnes replied sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes and smiling invitingly. "I hope to see more of you during Clara's stay in London. And you had better go and greet her at once," she added, "though I am much desirous of your company. I hope you will stay to dine with us this evening; it will give you more time with Clara. I know how much she must have missed you."

Benedict accepted Agnes' invitation with a bow, and immediately moved to embrace his sister, wrapping her up in his arms and nearly lifting her all the way off the floor. Clara threw her arms around his neck and held on, closing her eyes and breathing in the smell of her older brother. Agnes was more right than she'd known: Clara had missed Benedict terribly. "Hello, Clara," he whispered into her hair.

"Hello, Ben," Clara whispered back. Her older brother was here, and a small part of her—the part that was still a little girl—now felt that everything would be all right, that nothing could stand against them, that together they'd be able to fix anything. She knew full well it wasn't that simple, but she felt better now that she'd seen Ben again. They'd always been close, and now that they were all that was left, that closeness had taken on a new importance.

Ben set her down and grinned at her, looking very much like Rosamond. They had the same green eyes, the same nose, and the same smile, while he shared his brown hair and the shape of his face with Clara. The resemblance to their late sibling made her heart ache—she missed her younger sister very much—and she wondered when the pain of the losses would stop hurting... if they'd stop hurting, or if there'd be empty, aching places inside her heart for the rest of her life.

Then she shook off the gloom and smiled back. She also gestured to Marion, who was standing rather stiffly and uncomfortably near her chair. "Ben, you remember Marion, my sister-in-law? She came with me to help look after Arthur."

"Of course. Mistress Marion, good to see you again," Ben said, his smile twitching as his inherent friendliness came up against Marion's stiff aloofness.

"Master Gage," Marion acknowledged with a curtsey, curling her full lips into a faint smile, though her pale blue eyes were still chilly.

"How's my nephew?" Ben asked, turning away with a rather desperate grin from Marion, now that courtesy had been paid.

"Arthur's fine," Clara replied with a wry look. "Tired, of course—he's having a nap in the nursery right now—but he's doing well. He's reading now, and starting to learn Latin."

"Just like his mother, then," Ben laughed. Then he paused, before going on. "Er. I saw Cardinal Wolsey earlier today. He remembers you from when you used to borrow books from the household and did my Latin translations, and sends his regards and his condolences."

"He knew about that?" Clara asked, surprised. She thought they were being subtle; then again, they'd been practically children, and children weren't known for their subtlety. But nearly decade-old shenanigans weren't at the forefront of her mind; there were more important things to be dealt with. She grabbed her brother's arm and dragged him to the table, pelting him with questions as she went. "What else did he say? Is he going to help me? What should I do next?"

"He can't help you," Benedict admitted, fidgeting awkwardly.

Clara nearly slipped off the bench she was trying to sit down on, getting her feet tangled in her skirts. "What? Why not?" she demanded.

"It's complicated," Ben demurred, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Ben," Clara growled.

Benedict sighed, and sat down on the bench next to her. Clara was distantly aware that Agnes was pulling Marion away and giving the siblings some privacy, but she kept most of her attention on her brother, who was looking very uncomfortable. "Wolsey can't help you because of the Boleyns," he explained.

Clara frowned, entirely confused at this new obstacle in her path. She knew that the Boleyn family hated Wolsey like poison—everyone in England knew that, it seemed—but what on earth did that have to do with her? She wasn't connected to the Boleyns at all.

"It's because of Spencer," Ben elaborated, correctly interpreting her expression. "According to the Cardinal, George Spencer is related to the Boleyns through Mary Boleyn's husband, which means—"

"He'll be able to call on them for support, and therefore Wolsey can't help me without making even more an enemy of the Boleyns," Clara finished, understanding immediately the dilemma Wolsey found himself in. She scowled fiercely. "So what do I do now? I'm not a lawyer, I don't know..."

"Well, Wolsey apologised for being unable to help, and he wrote you these letters of introduction," Benedict remembered, fishing inside his doublet for the letters. "They're addressed to Thomas More and Thomas... erm, Thomas Cromwell," he said, after a quick check of the direction. "Wolsey said they're both excellent legal minds who'll have no issues with assisting you."

Clara accepted the letters with a relieved smile. "I'm glad to hear it. I was already planning to ask help from Sir Thomas More—I still write to his daughter—but I wasn't sure if I could presume upon his help on my own. I'll feel a good deal more confident about approaching him with this," she admitted, tapping Wolsey's seal with her finger. She peered at the other letter. "Who's Thomas Cromwell, though? I've never heard of him."

"He's the king's secretary," Benedict replied promptly, "though he started out as one of Wolsey's men. I know he's a trained barrister... I think he's got some ties to the cloth trade and the bankers, too, but I'm not sure. I don't know him well... or at all. But he's supposed to be quite clever."

"Do you know where he lives?" Clara inquired, tucking the letters into her pocket.

"No, but I can find out," Benedict promised. "Don't worry. Even though Wolsey himself can't help you, you'll still win."

"Your mouth to God's ears," Clara murmured. She fixed her eyes on his, and asked, "Have you any advice for me?"

Ben grinned at her, reaching out to tweak her nose. "I'm your older brother, Clare. I always have advice for you. Very little of it is going to be of use to your case, of course, since your older brother is not a lawyer; thus, I can only advise you to talk to those Thomases," he said, pointing to her pocket. "They're the legal minds, so I advise you to get their advice, since it will be far superior to mine. But I also advise you to stop thinking about the whole thing, at least for tonight. Get some rest, eat some food, spend time with your family and friends, and don't think about it, or you'll end up with one of those terrible headaches that mother used to get and you'll have to take to your bed like she did and snarl at anyone who makes any noise and then where will you be?"

"In bed," Clara replied, making a face at her brother. "But we've no worry of that. I don't get headaches like Mama, thankfully, no matter how much I do or don't worry."

"Fine then," Ben sniffed, mock-pouting at her. "Don't listen to me."

Clara laughed softly, and rose to embrace her brother. "I always listen to you, Ben," she promised, squeezing his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his temple. "Now come, let us go and talk to Agnes, and be engaging guests. Arthur should be awake within an hour or so—I'll have Marion wake him if he's not—and you can spend some time with your nephew. It'll be good for him. He needs more men in his life, I think. If I am awarded Arthur's charge, I wonder if I shouldn't consider remarrying," she mused quietly, almost to herself. "He will need a father; he can't grow up surrounded by women."

"Worry about that later—win your case first," Ben suggested, standing up. "And for tonight, sister, there is no case. Tonight, you are spending time with the people who love you. Tonight is for fun, tomorrow is for worrying."

With that, he led her over to where Agnes and Marion were standing by the brazier, and all talk of legal cases and courts was put on hold for the rest of the afternoon and evening. The conversation was lively and witty that evening, carried mostly along by Ben and Agnes; Clara and Marion were too tired to contribute much. They sat down to dinner without Lord Sedley; Agnes said, with a dismissive flick of her wrist, that he was often late home from Whitehall, and they usually dined without him.

Ben departed for Hampton Court not long after the meal was over, and once he was gone Clara excused herself and went upstairs to bed, weary from the journey. The moment her head hit the pillow, she fell into the deep black sleep of the truly exhausted, and slept utterly without dreams.

* * *

_11 November, 1528_

Clara woke late the next morning, when the sun was already high above the London rooftops. Annoyed with herself for sleeping so late (though she acknowledged she'd needed the rest and that the long sleep had doubtlessly done her good), she rushed through her morning ablutions, having a bit of a wash, throwing on a clean dress, tucking her brown hair up into a snood, and bolting down a breakfast of bread and ale as fast as she could. She greeted Agnes and Marion, checked on Arthur, gathered her things, and within an hour was seated in a public barge being rowed out to Chelsea, wherein dwelt Sir Thomas More and his family.

It was a pleasant autumn day, cool and crisp with a light breeze. Clara was just glad it wasn't raining, since she was carrying with her a folio of papers and a book, into which she stuck her nose as the barge rowed through London. It was one of her old favourites today, and one she considered quite suitable given the person whom she was seeking out: _In Praise of Folly_, by Erasmus, who was a dear friend of Thomas More. The title of the work in its original Greek—_Moriae Encomium_—might've even been an oblique reference to the man whom Clara meant to see. At any rate, it was an enjoyable read with a plenitude of admirable sentiments, and carrying it into More's house wouldn't raise any eyebrows. Admittedly, this copy was the English translation rather than the original Greek or even the Latin, but Clara's Greek was patchy at best and she didn't have the patience for Latin today.

It took a few hours to row out to Chelsea, and the scenery began to change from buildings and water stairs to grassy banks and trees, still with some lingering greenness among the autumnal shades of brown and gold. Clara, however, was more aware of the growing quietude as the noise of London faded—she'd forgotten how loud it was in the city, having spent the past few years in the country. The sounds of people shouting and wagons creaking and animals bawling gave way to the wind through the trees and the sound of the river, and Clara relaxed as she sank deeper into her literary daze.

Around mid-afternoon, the barge docked at Chelsea with a thump, and startled Clara out of her book. "We've arrived, madam!" the steersman shouted.

Clara looked up from the pages, returning to the world with a jolt and blinking confusedly in the sunlight. Then she shook her head and stood carefully, marking her place with a bit of string before standing and making her way along the boat towards the dock. "My thanks, good sirs," she said, taking the hand of the steersman and leaping lightly out of the barge, landing on the dock with a soft thump. "I pray you wait for me; I may need to return to London later." The steersman nodded in acquiescence, and the rowers were raising their oars as she turned around and made her way towards the house, the only sound as she passed the rustle of her skirts brushing against the dirt path and the grass.

A servant came down to meet her as she approached the gatehouse, passing under the mulberry trees which were now mostly bare of leaves. "Good day to you, madam. May I ask your name and your business?" he inquired with a bow.

"My name is Lady Clara Tyrell, and I have come to see Sir Thomas More and Mistress Margaret Roper," she explained.

The man nodded, recognition dawning on his face. Apparently, she was either expected or remembered, but either way the man was going to let her into the house. "Of course, Lady Tyrell. Mistress Margaret is in the study; if you'll come with me, I'll ask if she's able to receive you," he offered, ushering her along the path.

Clara started up the path again with a resolute smile. "Thank you."

She was shown into the house, encountering at first the painting of the family hung therein. Sir Thomas was in the centre, and Meg was at his feet with a book, and they were surrounded by the rest of the family (but Clara couldn't recognise them offhand the same way she could Sir Thomas and Meg). The servant accompanying her let her stare up at the painting—perhaps he was used to guests to the house being struck by the likenesses on the wall—and only when she herself was finished looking did he direct her into the great hall.

Not knowing how long she'd be waiting—perhaps Meg was involved with something and couldn't extricate herself immediately—Clara settled down on a bench, set her folio on the table, and opened her book, sinking once more into Erasmus' satirical prose. But not fifteen minutes later, her attention was diverted by the sharp click-click of heels on wood and the rustle of long skirts, and Clara marked her place and stood. That was Meg, she'd bet.

Sure enough, the familiar form of Margaret Roper, née More, emerged into the great hall. Clara recognised her, of course, though she was older now; it had been nearly five years since they were last in company, after all, and time had wrought a few changes, making Meg's face a little more angular and her body a little taller. But her clever, sparkling dark eyes were the same, as was her curly brown hair and the welcoming smile curving her full lips as she approached.

"Clara, welcome," Meg said warmly, opening her arms and embracing her guest warmly. "I'm so very glad to see you—did you get my letter?"

Clara shook her head, smiling at her friend. "No, I likely left for London before it arrived."

"No matter. In the letter you didn't get, I invited you to come to Chelsea once you arrived in London, and you're here, even if you didn't get the letter," Meg laughed. "Father's not here, though—I assume you've come to see him as well?" she inquired with an arch of her brow. Clara nodded. "He should be back for supper, and you can see him then. Will you stay to dine?"

"If you'll have me, I'll be most happy to stay," Clara accepted with a bright smile. She'd hoped the invitation would be extended.

Meg led Clara to the library, where Clara wrote a letter informing Agnes and Marion that she wouldn't be back until later, and Meg dispatched a servant to take the barge waiting for Lady Tyrell back to London with the message; the More's barge would bear her back to Lord Sedley's house after dinner. Business matters seen to, the two women settled down among the books to pass the time until supper.

"What are you reading?" Meg inquired, gesturing to the book resting atop Clara's portfolio. She squinted at the cover. "Is that Erasmus?"

"_In Praise of Folly_," Clara confirmed.

"The English translation?" Meg inquired, taking up the book and paging idly through it. "Ah yes, this is a fair decent edition. I prefer the Greek, myself, or the Latin. Weren't you learning Greek, once? And I know you read Latin."

Clara shrugged, ignoring the subtle rebuke to her scholarship. "My Latin remains as proficient as it ever was, though my Greek did indeed take a lower place to the demands of my married life. I chose the English translation because I wanted to read something that would not tax my mind over-much, given all the other demands placed on it," she explained. "I'm no lawyer, and have little idea of what I'm doing. Hence my need to see your father. Cardinal Wolsey wrote me a letter of introduction... I don't think he's aware that I was already acquainted a little with the family. Still, I'm grateful for his consideration."

"Is the Cardinal not helping you himself?" Meg asked, setting down Clara's book.

"No," Clara sighed. "Apparently Master Spencer has connections which make the Cardinal leery of assisting me openly."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Meg replied, her fox-like face taking on an expression of curiosity.

"Boleyns," was all Clara said.

"Oh." Meg grimaced a little. "I see."

From there, the conversation veered back to literature, and remained there for the rest of the afternoon. Meg was currently working on a translation of Homer from the Greek, which she hoped would be published one day, and she was happy to show it to Clara. Clara thought it was very well done—not that she would've known if it were badly done, of course, since her Greek was inferior to Meg's—and learned a few new Greek words.

The light began to fade, and the candles were lit as the sun sank beneath the horizon by no less a person than Lady Alice More, who came into the library to greet the guest in her house. She remembered Clara from her visits to the house before her marriage and welcomed her warmly, reinforcing her step-daughter's invitation to dinner. She left shortly thereafter, leaving the younger women to Cicero, who, being a lawyer himself and therefore relevant to Clara's case, had been brought out with the candles. Cicero occupied the two of them until a servant came and informed them that Sir Thomas had arrived home from Whitehall.

"Come now, let's go down," Meg bid, putting the books back on the shelves as Clara collected her papers and her book and tucked them under her arm. "I think we're having baked lampreys for dinner. You like lampreys, don't you?"

Clara did not, in fact, like lampreys. Her innate honesty warred with the reminder that she was a guest, and in the end she kept silent and followed Meg downstairs. The children of the More family—and there were many of them, between wards and marriages and Sir Thomas' own children—were congregating in the hall, including Meg's husband, William Roper. As Meg drew away to greet her spouse, Clara drew away, feeling her grief for her late husband rising up in her heart as she saw Meg and Will's happiness. Instead, she turned her eyes to the man in the centre of the throng.

Sir Thomas More looked just like he had the last time she'd seen him, down to his very garb, dressed simply in black with a golden chain of office around his shoulders. He was still a doting father, dispensing smiles and affectionate touches freely, and Clara felt the old sting of wistfulness, wishing that she'd had a father like Sir Thomas. She loved her own father, of course, and honoured him as the Bible dictated, but John Gage had always been a man to fear before being a parent to love, quick with his temper and capricious in his good moods. Thomas More wasn't like that; it was apparent in the way his children interacted with him. Though they were respectful, they weren't afraid.

Which was more than could be said for Clara. She knew that if this doting father she was watching embrace his son had any idea about the books she kept in her walnut chest, he'd have no compunctions (no matter how fond of her he might or might not be) about having her tortured and burned as a heretic. And she couldn't let herself forget it, in her longing for the kind of father Thomas More was or her admiration for his scholarship and his integrity, or she'd say something imprudent and her secret would be out. Then, there'd be no question of getting Arthur's guardianship—she'd be lucky to keep her own life.

_Don't forget that, Clara_, she reminded herself inwardly as Sir Thomas' kindly dark eyes found her, standing hesitantly on the edges of the More family throng. _No matter how much you like these people—how much you like this man—don't forget their danger._

More approached her with a smile on his handsome face, and Clara felt the inward quake—a kind of simultaneous attraction and revulsion, flavoured now with a shiver of fear—which had and did so often overcome her in Sir Thomas' presence. "Lady Tyrell, welcome," he said warmly, taking one of her hands and pressing it between his. "You have my sincere condolences for your losses. I believe you have some questions for me, about a legal matter." She nodded, and opened her mouth, but More moved on before she could speak. "We will speak about it after we dine," he promised, leading her into the great hall and seating her at his left.

Though Thomas More's household was superior in many ways, cuisine was not one of them. It being Wednesday (and the More house being rigidly orthodox) there was no meat, but there were several fish dishes (which all tasted the same, and included the lampreys Meg had mentioned) in a thick, gritty sauce that was almost like mud, some dubious cheese which had apparently been made by one of Meg's sisters, loaves of rather rough cheat bread, and apples. Clara hadn't had much opportunity to eat any of it at the beginning of the meal, when the family focussed on her as the newcomer and pelted her with questions. How fared things in Leicestershire? How was the weather? Her journey? Her son? What of her daughter? Oh, wasn't that a shame; what brought her to London? What kind of carriage did she use? What kind of horses? She answered all the queries as best she could, feeling slightly overwhelmed by all these people and their attention, until Sir Thomas stepped in and kindly but firmly put an end to the questions.

"Poor Lady Tyrell has taken no food, you've asked her so many questions," he'd chided gently. "She'll think we're terrible hosts at this rate." More had turned a smile on her, then, which Clara had shyly returned, retreating from the centre of attention and feeling as though she was seventeen again, awkward and shy and painfully aware of her own inferiority compared to the people around her.

She nibbled at her meal as she listened to the conversations going on around her, her keen ears picking up the sounds from every part of the table. More, at her right, was talking to Will Roper and Meg about the latest news from the continent (where apparently Imperial interests were reigning supreme); in the centre of the table, across from her, she could hear John More talking with his sister Elizabeth's husband about the price of grain (high, since the harvest last year had not been good, and this year's had been little better); a little past them, Anne Cresacre and Cicely More were holding a quiet conversation about fashion (French gowns, with their slimmer sleeves and lower necklines, were becoming more popular, and the girls were speculating about whether or not Sir Thomas would ever allow them to wear such a garment); and at the end of the table, Lady Alice was chatting with Elizabeth and Jane about gardening (it had been a good year for ageratums, and Alice waxing eloquent about the best way to take cuttings for next year). Also, one of the servants standing in the room was fidgeting, shoes making little scuffling noises against the floor (Clara would wager he had to relieve himself, but couldn't abandon his post), and she'd guess there were two more outside the hall—she could hear them whispering to each other, but couldn't quite make out their words over the sound of everyone else.

The final course of supper was an apple pie, and the sweetness of the apples was enough to overcome the fact that the crust was dense and tough; Clara ate heartily as More's fool Pattinson cracked jokes and capered about. One of Pattinson's jokes was so funny she got the hiccups, and Sir Thomas and Meg gave her concerned looks as she trembled and quaked from her internal spasms. She waved them off with a smile as she reached for her wine goblet, downing the whole thing and holding her breath to stop the hiccups.

After the meal was over, when the family removed themselves to the withdrawing room to cluster around the fire while Meg read to them from the Bible (Clara thought it was the Book of Acts, but she wasn't certain, and didn't remain to make sure), Sir Thomas led Clara away into his study. The servants had already lit the candles on the desk, and their warm light flickered on the spines of the books around them and the papers on the desk's surface.

More settled into the chair behind the desk, and gestured for Clara to take a chair. She did so, clutching her folio and book tightly with trembling hands, aware of the steady weight of Sir Thomas' dark eyes. It made her feel as though the lampreys she'd eaten were alive in her stomach, squirming around, and she had to drum up her courage before she could meet his gaze.

He was smiling fondly at her, though. "Little Mistress Mouse, all grown up," he remarked. "And with a pup of her own."

Clara smiled convulsively, though she feared it looked more like a grimace; she'd always disliked that particular nickname, and was further annoyed that anyone—even Thomas More—should brand her sweet, clever, spirited son as a mousey creature sight unseen.

More didn't seem to notice, though (or he had the courtesy to ignore it), and went on, "Now, your letters indicated there is some matter with a wardship case with which you require my assistance?"

Clara nodded, plucking Cardinal Wolsey's letter from her folio as she spoke. "Yes, Master Mo—Sir Thomas," she confirmed, correcting herself as she stumbled over his title. She felt so much like her younger self that she had almost forgotten that those days were gone, that she was a knight's widow and More a knight himself.

Thankfully, Sir Thomas didn't seem to care about her slip; his handsome face was still kindly as she handed the sealed parchment to him, taking care that their fingers didn't touch, and explained what she knew of the situation as More broke the seal and began to read. "Arthur—my son's—wardship is to be given to George Spencer of Berkshire. My brother Benedict approached Cardinal Wolsey on my behalf, but he is unable to render me any assistance due to the Boleyn connection. I was directed to you by the Cardinal, who hopes you'll be able to help me in his stead. He said you'd have no compunctions about doing so."

"Indeed, his Eminence is correct," More agreed absently, eyes still scanning the words of the Cardinal's letter. He finished reading, and set it down on his desk, leaning forward to catch her eyes. "I cannot promise this will be easy, Clara," he warned. "You may have a fight on your hands, especially if Spencer does get the backing of the Boleyns. Are you certain you are willing to fight this in the courts?"

"More than willing," Clara replied stoutly, holding his gaze, willing him to see how adamant about this she was (and hoping he would read nothing else in her eyes). "Arthur is my only child left living. Why should I pay someone to raise him when I'm perfectly willing to do it myself?"

That made More smile a little. "That isn't quite what wardship is about," he chided her gently.

Clara was reminded that he had taken on a few wards himself, and blushed a little at the gentle rebuke. However, their situations weren't the same, and she told him so. "It's not quite the same, Sir Thomas. Perhaps if I were dead, or an unfit mother... but I'm not. I'm alive and well and Arthur belongs with me—there's no reason for him to go elsewhere!" she insisted.

"You're very young," More pointed out softly. "Young, and inexperienced in the world. That might have something to do with the decision to foster your son elsewhere."

"I'm not that young," Clara protested. "I'm twenty-five years old."

That startled More, making his eyebrows fly upwards, and his eyes flicked quickly over her from head to toe. "Are you really?" he asked, surprise flavouring his voice. "I had taken you to be much younger."

Clara shrugged, her lips twisting in annoyance. "I lost a good deal of weight this past summer," she explained.

It was most vexing; as a maiden, she had been a skinny little beanpole of a girl, with barely any hips and no bosom to speak of. After birthing two children, though, she had finally acquired a womanly figure, which her husband had been most appreciative of... only to lose it when she fell sick. Now, she was back to being skinny and flat-chested. Paired with her still-youthful face, her large brown eyes, and the fact that she would never be a very tall woman, she supposed she could understand how Sir Thomas might guess her to be younger than she was.

Not that it didn't irritate her.

"Ah. Well, my apologies," More said, shaking his head a little before returning to the original topic of conversation. "Though you are older than first I thought, there's still the matter of your inexperience, and the fact that there would be no men in the household with you and your son. You're not very worldly, Clara, and it would be just you and Arthur. I fear that will work against you in court."

"Why should it matter?" Clara demanded. "I can remarry, if the courts think Arthur needs a father. I can remarry," she repeated, though the idea held little appeal for her at the moment; to marry so soon (a mere five months!) after her husband's death seemed... insulting. Though her marriage to Sir Robert had been arranged by her parents, and she'd known him but little when she wed him, she had come to love him over time, and she still mourned his loss. Robin had been a good husband to her, and to replace him with such speed would be a poor tribute to his memory.

She shook the grief away, however, and went on. "And what does it matter if I'm experienced or not? And what kind of experience would the courts require, anyway? I was Sir Robert's wife for five years, and I've been controlling the entirety of the Tyrell holdings for nigh on a half a year! I'm no green girl, and even if there are still holes in my knowledge, I can patch them up as needed. I can learn what I need to, Sir Thomas, you know I can," she insisted plaintively, seeking perhaps personal affirmation from the man in addition to legal assistance, wishing to hear him acknowledge that she was capable. "And I can ask for help if I need it—there are plenty of people who are willing to help me—and that's what I'm doing now, isn't it? Asking for help because I need it?" She stopped, then, and swallowed around the lump in her throat, her fear rising up and trying to overcome her courage. "Will you help me?" she asked, hating the timid neediness in her voice but knowing she couldn't hide it, either.

More sighed, but the indulgent condescension in his expression gave Clara hope. "Of course I will assist you, Clara—there was never any doubt of that," he assured her, standing up and coming over to pat her on the head reassuringly. "There's no guarantee of success, of course, and I do have many other demands on my time, but I promise to do my best for you."

"Thank you. That's all I can ask for," Clara replied gratefully, relieved and annoyed all at once. More didn't seem to think they had much of a chance, but at least he'd agreed to help, though he was ambiguous about how much help he could render.

_I'll have to seek out Cromwell soon_, Clara mused to herself as More began to pull law books off the shelves and inform her about what her most efficacious approach would be. _Perhaps he can give me an assurance of unequivocal help, because I'm getting tired of all this waffling. My son is my son, and I'm going to fight for him. So either help me, _she thought, watching Thomas More move around the study, _or get out of my way._

_

* * *

_

**A/N part deux:** So there's Thomas More, whom I never liked... until I saw how Jeremy Northam did him in _The Tudors_. It was at that point that I acknowledged that he might not be a total arse. But I'm still not terribly fond of him (More the historical person. Northam!More's not all that bad).

_Historical Notes_: Sir Thomas More has two things about him not mentioned in this chapter which make him kind of all right. One, he shares my birthday (February 7). And two, he had a pet beaver (because c'mon, that's awesome). Margaret More was already married to Will Roper by 1528, but I don't know if the two of them were still living in Chelsea with More. In the show, most of More's kids are still living with him under one roof, so that's what I did here.

Let me know what you think, and please review!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Happy Holidays, everybody! This chapter was almost done for a couple weeks, but I couldn't finish it because I was working... like, 14 hour days both before and after Christmas and pulling in full-time hours. On the plus side, I made lots of money; on the downside, I was really tired all the time and had no time to write. But this is a pretty nice, long chapter, which will hopefully make up for it.

Also, happy new year to everyone! Let's hope 2011 is a good one!

* * *

**Chapter 3:**

_12 November 1528_

Clara returned from Chelsea very late after dining with the More family, carrying with her several heavy law books which Sir Thomas had graciously loaned her. Nearly the entire household was asleep, and the only sound of Clara's passage was the soft swish of her skirts as she moved through the halls. She dropped the books off in her chambers before slipping in to check on her son, whom she had barely seen at all that day. Arthur was deeply asleep, clutching his toy horse, and Clara brushed his chestnut hair away from his forehead—it was getting a bit long; she'd have to cut it pretty soon, or he'd start to look like a shaggy little pony—and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek before quietly leaving the nursery and falling into her own bed.

She slept late again, though not as late as the previous morning, waking around nine to the sound of the servants moving around the house. After dressing, she arranged her papers for the day in her folio, sticking the other letter from Wolsey in among them. Today she was going to do two things: contrive a reason to get out of the house and visit her bookseller, and find out where Thomas Cromwell lived.

But before she did that, she'd better spend some time with her hostess, and her family.

After bolting a quick meal of bread and ale—and vowing that one of these days she'd have a proper breakfast she wouldn't have to eat at speed—one of the servants directed Clara outside, where Lady Agnes and Marion were seated on a bench in the garden, watching Arthur and Agnes' son Henry play on the grass with a host of toy knights and horses. Both women were looking stiff and uncomfortable, and as Clara drew closer she could hear them making extremely stilted conversation about... hedgerows?

"Those are beech," Agnes was saying, pointing to a row of hedges as Clara came up behind them, "and we have some ash at our country home in Hampshire."

"There are ash hedges at Ardley as well," Marion replied stiffly.

"Why on earth are you talking of hedges?" Clara piped in curiously, feeling a naughty little thrill when Agnes and Marion both startled violently, Agnes nearly falling off the bench.

"That, dear friend, I did not miss," Agnes complained, pressing a hand to her heart and scowling at Clara, who just smiled sunnily back. "Good day to you nonetheless."

"Clara, good morning," Marion said with a warm smile, instantly becoming softer and more pleasant. "How went it with Thomas More?"

"Yes, do tell us," Agnes entreated.

But before she could speak, Arthur abandoned his game and came rushing over, crying, "Mama, Mama!" Clara knelt down and he threw himself into her arms, wrapping his own around her neck and holding on. "Mama, I missed you," Arthur mumbled into her hair.

"And I missed you, my dearest boy," she whispered, smoothing her hand over his head.

He let go of her neck and stepped back. "Have you found the magic words yet, Mama?" he asked innocently.

"Not yet, sweetheart," Clara admitted. "But yesterday I went to see a man, and mean to meet another today, who will help me learn them. Have you been having fun with Henry, and been a good boy for Lady Agnes and the nurse?"

"Yes, Mama," Arthur assured her earnestly. "Henry's got lots of fine toys; we're playing knights," he explained, pointing back at the toys on the grass, which had been abandoned by both boys. Little Henry was toddling over to meet them with a happy smile on his chubby face, which was very like his mother's.

"Hello, Lady," Henry greeted simply.

"Greetings, Master Keriell," Clara returned, addressing the little boy with the family's surname. "How are you this day?"

"Very well. Arthur and I are playing. We made friends," the little boy informed her. At least, that's what she assumed he was saying; at barely three, his lisping speech was slightly difficult to understand.

"I am very glad you two have become friends," Clara replied solemnly. And she was. There weren't that many other children around Ardley Castle for Arthur to play with, and it pleased her that her friend's son and her own should follow suit with their mothers and likewise be friends.

Henry nodded seriously, and reached to tug on Arthur's sleeve. "Come play," he insisted.

Arthur looked at his mother for her consent; when she nodded, he pressed a kiss to her cheek and ran off, back to the toys on the lawn. Clara stood up and brushed off her skirts, moving back towards Agnes and Marion.

"It's good to see them getting along," Agnes remarked warmly, watching the two boys move their tiny wooden toys around on the grass. "I hoped they'd be friends. Like mother, like son, hmm?"

"Indeed," Clara agreed. "Henry looks very much like you."

"Not as much as Arthur looks like you," Agnes returned. "Speaking of your son, how went it with Thomas More last night? Is he still as handsome as you recall?" she teased.

"What?" Marion asked sharply, looking between Agnes and Clara.

"Didn't she tell you? Clara used to have the most tremendous crush on Thomas More—always sighing and going doe-eyed whenever we talked of him. I think she might've fancied herself as Lady More, should Sir Thomas find himself widowed again," Agnes tittered, sending a wicked grin at her friend, whose cheeks had turned bright red.

"I did not!" Clara protested—and that was the truth. She had never harboured any ambitions to be involved in any amorous fashion with Thomas More. "I wanted to be him, I didn't want to marry him."

"You wanted to be a man?" Agnes challenged archly.

Clara shot the blonde a glare. "You know what I mean, Agnes. I admired his mind and his wit and his scholarship and wished I was like him. Would that I was even half as learned as he," she replied wistfully, with a little sigh.

"You're very smart, Clara, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise," Marion interjected loyally.

She smiled at her sister-in-law, grateful for her support, but Marion had never met the Mores. Clara shook her head. "Sir Thomas More—and even Meg, his daughter—are far more clever than I could claim to be," she demurred.

"So?" Agnes pressed, and Clara noticed the frown on Marion's face. Were they not getting along? That was unfortunate; she had hoped that her best friends would like each other, picturing merry evenings around the fire or afternoons in the garden with the three of them chatting or reading or chatting about the book they were reading; perhaps Agnes and Marion could sew while Clara read to them from the Bible (or, knowing Agnes' tastes, a Romance or a book of poems). "Tell me how it goes in Chelsea, with the family there. You always have the best gossip."

"Why do you think Clara would have any gossip?" Marion demanded, full lips pursed in an incipient scowl. "She's been in the country for the past few years."

"But she's been in London for a day already, and that's long enough to learn something interesting. Clara always knows something," Agnes retorted haughtily, sparing Marion a disdainful glance before turning her bright blue eyes eagerly back to Clara. "Well?"

"Well," Clara admitted guiltily, "I did hear something..." And she lowered her voice and relayed the scurrilous little titbit she'd heard More's servants discussing, about some bad behaviour John More had gotten up to in London, which involved an alehouse, a young woman, a bawd, and had left his clothes very dirty and torn. Agnes gasped in all the right places and was appropriately scandalised, and Clara put down her burdens for a moment and giggled with her friend, swearing both Agnes and Marion to secrecy after she finished relating the story.

Clara always tried to be honest, both with herself and with other people, and she was honest enough to admit that her chief vice was gossip. She couldn't help it; her ears were so sensitive that it was ridiculously easy for her to overhear things, and what had begun as a child asking for clarifications in regards to things she'd heard had devolved into tendency to share information for her own enjoyment. It wasn't something Clara was particularly proud of, and she made a point of keeping the important secrets, but it gave her a kind of importance among her peers, allowing her to gain acceptance among people who might not otherwise notice her.

"Gossip is a sin," Marion scolded lightly as they went inside to wash up for the midday meal. This was an oft-repeated chastisement from Marion, who despaired of Clara's slightly nosy ways.

"But not a mortal one, thankfully," Clara riposted lightly. "Besides, my penchant for gossip has served me well on several occasions."

"Has it?" Marion inquired flatly.

Clara nodded. "Ask Agnes about Jane Fisher sometime," she suggested. "She'll tell you all about it."

Jane Fisher had been an unpleasant girl also in attendance on the Duchess of Norfolk during Clara's time there. Jane's elder sister, however, had been a maid to Queen Katherine, and Jane used her lofty connections and her cruel tongue to cow the other girls, reigning supreme over the coterie of maidens and dumping spite and scorn on anyone who offended her. Rosamond's beauty, when she arrived from Leicestershire, had offended Mistress Fisher, and Jane had reduced Rosa—who had been barely twelve at that point—to tears more than once. That had been the final straw for Clara.

The maids all slept in a common dormitory, and thus she had more than once overheard Jane whispering to her confidants about her dalliance with the dancing tutor; Clara had even caught them at it one afternoon. Now, she wielded that information like a sword. Accompanied by Sarah (back then, Clara had been much more shy and... well, mousey, and had required a friend to bolster her courage), they caught Jane after mass and warned her that if she didn't leave Rosamond Gage alone, they would go straight to the Duchess and tell HHer Grace all about Jane's antics with Edward Barre. She'd be dismissed in disgrace... unless she held that viper's tongue of hers.

Jane had left Rosamond alone after that—left all of them alone, for that matter, barely looking in their direction and speaking to them only when required. It had made the remainder of their time in the Duchess' household much more pleasant, and had been a kind of triumph for young Clara. She'd protected her sister, and proven that her tendency to gossip—which her parents scolded her for and which the priests said was a sin—could be used for good as well.

A little before lunch, a letter arrived from Benedict which contained the directions to Thomas Cromwell's house. Conveniently for Clara, it was in Shoreditch, near Austin Friars, which was not too terribly far from the booksellers where she acquired her illegal books. That cinched the afternoon's plans; she was now firmly resolved to make herself known to Master Cromwell's household (guessing that the man himself would likely not be at home) and use that errand as an excuse to visit Scrope's Books, alone, without anyone asking her where she'd been and what she'd been doing. She even had a stack of law books from Thomas More to use as camouflage for whatever new books she acquired! It seemed like a divine sign.

Thus, after dining with Agnes and Marion and reading a story to Arthur and Henry before they were put down for a nap, Clara collected her folio and one of her borrowed tomes, tucking both of them into a satchel, and set out for Shoreditch on foot, refusing the offer of accompaniment. Marion was horrified, but Agnes just nodded and waved her along; she was familiar with Clara's long-standing habit of wandering around London on foot, which had begun in the very first weeks of her time as a maid of honour. Back in those days, she'd been scolded and even whipped more than once for sneaking out. Consequently, Clara knew the city of London fair well even now. She knew how to get to Shoreditch, and could ask for more precise directions when she reached the district in question.

The Cromwell house, near the Augustine Friary which gave the neighbourhood its name, was easy to locate; it seemed like everyone in Shoreditch knew where it was. There was also much gossip to be had once her destination was known.

She'd first stopped by a clothier's shop and asked the owner where to find the house. The old man, leaning outside his door, squinted at her through rheumy brown eyes. "Going to see Tom Cromwell, eh?" he asked sourly. "Well, much luck to you. Keep on straight down this row, and then take a right at the butcher's. The house is the one with the gate and the apple tree in the front. Done right well for himself, he has, for all he's a jumped-up blacksmith's son from Putney," he sneered. "He might not even see you, too busy puttin' on airs, pretending he's a fine and fancy gentleman when he's no better than the rest of us."

Clara, now slightly baffled and a little uneasy, thanked the man, forestalling any more complaints, and quickly walked off in the direction indicated. They'd apparently been overheard by a washerwoman, though, who kept pace with Clara as she moved down the street, balancing a basket of laundry on her hip.

"Don't you listen to Old Bishop, there," she advised, bending her head towards Clara as they walked along. "He's just jealous. Always hated the Wyckes' for being wealthier than he, and Cromwell married one of 'em, 'Lizabeth Wyckes as was."

"Sour grapes," Clara understood, nodding.

"Just so," the woman agreed. "Master Cromwell took over the business, too, when Old Wyckes passed on, and it's still doing well. La, does that make that sour old man mad!" she laughed, referring to the clothier they'd left behind with a toss of her head. "But he's a good enough man, is Master Cromwell—polite, generous... shame about his wife, though."

"Why, what happened to his wife?" Clara inquired, hungry for more information about the man she was trying to see.

"Died a year ago, God rest 'er soul," the woman explained. "Their son, Master Gregory, takes after her—got her eyes and her fair face."

"Are you acquainted with the family?" Clara asked, wondering where the washerwoman's information was coming from.

"The Wyckes are a local family, and my sister works in the Cromwell house," the laundress replied easily. "Says Master Cromwell's a good master and a good father—stern, but fair. What brings you to his door?"

"Legal matters," Clara said, wrinkling her nose.

Her companion nodded, making an auburn curl escape from her cap. "Well, Cromwell's got a good head for it. Good luck to you, Mistress!" she called, turning away to hurry down an alley.

"Thank you!" Clara called back. Now feeling a little more easy, she continued on alone.

She needed to ask for directions but once more, from a fishmonger's stand. The man himself gave her directions—she was going the right way, but hadn't gone far enough down the lane—but his daughter (a young girl with a mop of dark curls and bright eyes, who couldn't be more than ten) perked up at the mention of the Cromwell house.

"They're awful rich, them Cromwells," the girl confided, catching Clara's attention before she could walk away from the stand. "The girls, they wore such pretty dresses. I liked to see them when they came around. Grace, she had this one kirtle as yellow as daffodils, with sleeves the same colour as grass. She looked just like a flower," she sighed, looking both envious and dreamy. "And Anne once had a jacket that had pearl buttons on, I'd swear," she added in a tone of hushed reverence. "I'd give anything for a jacket with pearl buttons. Yellow, like Grace's dress."

"Are these girls Master Cromwell's daughters?" Clara wondered.

The child nodded. "Yes, Mistress. They're dead now, though," she added sadly, crossing herself. "And the others don't wear anything but black anymore."

Her father called the girl back to her work, and Clara walked on, trying to formulate an idea of the man she was hoping soon to meet. Benedict said Cromwell was clever; he must be, to climb from low origins to the lofty post of the King's secretary. Very low origins, apparently, if Master Bishop the clothier was right about him being a blacksmith's son from Putney, but a decent man nonetheless, if the laundress was right. He married well, to a local woman, though he was now a widower, like her. He had also lost his daughters... like her.

Clara's curiosity had now been piqued, and her steps grew swifter. She was now very eager to make herself known to Master Cromwell, and slightly disappointed that there was little hope of meeting him today. She was inclined to like the man already, sight unseen; the knowledge that he'd lost his spouse and his daughters, like she had, gave her a feeling of kinship. Imagination thus engaged with creating pictures of a man she'd never met, Clara spent the remainder of her walk daydreaming about what Master Cromwell be like, and how they'd get on. However, she knew so little about him that she couldn't quite picture him in her head, and could hardly wait to meet him and put a face to the name. Perhaps there'd be a portrait of the family in the house, like there was in More's Chelsea home?

The Cromwell house in Austin Friars was a traditional sort of London house for a well-to-do merchant family. There was a wall around the yard, over which Clara could see the branches of the apple trees, still clinging to some of the season's last fruits, and several outbuildings beside the main house, which had two, maybe three, floors. There was also a crowd around the gate, through which Clara had to alternatively slide and elbow her way.

She flashed the letter with Wolsey's seal to the gatekeeper—a sturdy young man who looked like he could punch a hole through a brick wall—and he let her through. "What is your business here, Madam?" he inquired, and his words were flavoured with a vague French accent. This was a man from Calais, Clara guessed; had Cromwell ever been to Calais? Interesting.

"I am Lady Clara Tyrell, and I have been advised by Cardinal Wolsey to seek out Master Thomas Cromwell in regards to a legal matter with which I am involved," Clara explained, brandishing Wolsey's letter like a talisman.

The servant accepted the letter and peered at the seal, then handed it back to her and gestured her towards the house. "Come with me, Lady Tyrell," he bid. "My master is not now at home, but I will show you to Master Richard."

Richard? The people she'd talked to and the talk she'd overheard hadn't mentioned any Richards. Clara's curiosity sparked again as she followed after the servant, and was shown into the house. It was a pleasant enough house, with rich carpets on the floor and sturdy furniture. A comfortable place, Clara decided, but impersonal, in a way. There was no portrait here, to her disappointment, and no bookshelves from which she might've gleaned some ideas in regards to Cromwell's character. All she could surmise was that gossip was right, and Thomas Cromwell was wealthy.

Approaching footsteps pricked her ears—two men, one of which (judging by the heaviness of the footfalls) was likely the same servant from the gate—and Clara turned towards the door and waited. Sure enough, she was soon joined by the same man from the gate and another, younger man, wearing finer cloth. Richard, perhaps? He had dark hair, a handsome sort of face, and keen hazel eyes, and though he was not very tall nor as sturdy as the servant at his side, Clara got the impression that he could certainly hold his own in a fight.

"Lady Tyrell, welcome to the house," the young man said, bowing to her quickly. "I am Richard Cromwell. I'm told you've come to see my uncle?"

Clara heard the servant exit the room, but paid him no attention, focussed as she was on the young man before her. "Thank you, Master Cromwell. I have indeed come to see your uncle, if he is the same Thomas Cromwell who is the King's secretary."

"He is the same, Madam, but he is not at home at the moment," Richard explained. "His work keeps him long away from home. He will return tonight, though, if you wish to... er, return. Or stay?"

Richard was clearly uncertain about the best course of action, and Clara wondered what about this situation was out of the young man's depth. Surely he was used to petitioners seeking his uncle? Or did few of them actually gain access to the house? Or were none of them lone women, or ladies? She wanted to know, but didn't want to ask; the poor lad looked uncomfortable enough. So she just smiled kindly at him and shook her head. "I thank you for the invitation, but I have another errand to run this day, and had better not stay, especially if you know not when Master Cromwell will return. Do you know if there would be a better time for me to return?"

"Evenings, I think," Richard replied after a moment of thought. "Late. Though, I will give the Cardinal's letter to my uncle as soon as he arrives home, if you like, and tell him that you seek his counsel," he offered. "Perhaps he will set a specific time aside for you. Where can you be reached, if we need to send you a message?"

"I am currently a guest of Lady Agnes Sedley, Lord Hugh Sedley's wife, and staying at their house near Whitefriars. If you send a message for me, send it there," Clara said, handing the letter over. "Thank you, Master Cromwell. Please convey to your uncle the urgency of this matter. I am... getting rather desperate for assistance," she admitted. "It's about my son—my only child—so naturally, the matter is very close to my heart."

"I will tell him," Richard assured her. "Good day to you, Lady Tyrell."

"Good day, Master Cromwell." Clara, being of higher rank, didn't have to curtsey, but she dipped her head in deference to the assistance this Richard Williams had rendered and hopefully would render.

As she was shown out of the house, she heard a couple of voices whispering about her, critiquing her dress and theorising who she was and why she was here. They were insightful, if slightly insulting, assuming her to be a country gentlewoman newly arrived in London, which would account for the state of her clothing. Clara paused and looked behind her, glancing up to see a pair of maidens also dressed in mourning—and frankly, a more fashionable mourning than hers—peering at her over the rail of the stairs. Once they noticed her looking, they both hurried away quickly, and she could hear them wondering nervously if they'd been overheard; Clara just shook her head and kept moving. She wondered who they were. Perhaps she'd be able to find out later, when she returned to the house to meet with Thomas Cromwell.

She'd have to wear a better dress.

Clara asked around a bit after exiting the Cromwell house, wanting to know how Richard Cromwell was related to Thomas and who those maids were. The people at the gate were willing to tell her all she knew, and so were those in the surrounding buildings. Apparently Richard Cromwell—or Richard Williams, as some people knew him—was the son of Master Cromwell's late sister Katherine and her husband Morgan Williams; Thomas Cromwell had taken their son into his household after their deaths, and Richard used his uncle's surname in tribute. The two girls who had been so scornful of Clara's gown were likely Alice Wellyfed, the daughter of Cromwell's late sister Elizabeth, and Joan Williamson, the daughter of Cromwell's late sister-in-law, Joan Williamson née Wyckes.

Late, late, late. It seemed that Thomas Cromwell had been losing family hand-over-fist, much like she had—he'd lost his wife, all of his sisters, his brother-in-law, and both his daughters. Clara felt a great upwelling of sympathy and camaraderie in her heart for the man whom she had yet to meet. He really was just like her, wasn't he? He knew what it was to cling to what was left after Death had pruned the family tree. Surely he'd help her—whole-heartedly help her, the way Thomas More held back from doing. Surely Thomas Cromwell, who understood loss, would help her hold onto one of the only things that Death had spared.

Feeling cheerful and, strangely, as though she might've made a new friend, Clara turned her steps north and headed for Scrope's Books, which was still in Shoreditch, but closer to the Moorgate rather than Austin Friars and the Thames. The afternoon was waning, but she still had plenty of time to make it to the bookseller's and back to Agnes' without raising any questions (and therefore without needing to tell any lies).

Scrope's Book and Print Shop was what the sign read, hanging outside the wattle-and-daub building, tucked between a tailor's and a goldsmith's. Clara had been a patron of this particular shop for nigh on ten years. There was no outward sign of the forbidden books hidden behind its timber walls; to all appearances, it was a simple London bookshop.

When Clara stepped into the dim interior, she was greeted by one of her favourite sights in all the world: shelves and shelves of books, all pressed up against each other, containing unknown secrets between their covers. The shop was quiet, though she could see Nicholas Scrope at the back with a customer; a welcoming smile creased his wrinkled face as he caught sight of her, bobbing his head to acknowledge her presence before turning back to the other patron, who was negotiating the price of a set of St. Augustine's writings. She meandered serenely through the shelves, running her fingers along the leather spines of the books, breathing in deeply to inhale the scents of ink, parchment, and leather and making a point of not looking too closely at the titles of the books. There was a budget to be adhered to, after all.

While some women had a weakness for jewels, or fine clothes, or elaborate caps and hoods, or horses or falcons or any number of luxuries, Clara's weakness was and had always been books. Given a choice between buying a new hood or adding to her library, she'd be writing to Scrope about new arrivals immediately. She'd always told her husband to buy her books, rather than jewels (not that he'd listened, of course, though he had given her beautiful copy of Chaucer's _Canterbury Tales_ after Constance had been born), and one of the reasons the girls at the Cromwell house had been so dismissive of her clothing was because she preferred to buy books rather than keep up with current fashions. Function over form was her motto for clothing, and what money she saved on dresses was always spent on books (though if even merchants' daughters were sneering at her dresses, perhaps she'd have to rethink that kind of economy).

That said, however, while Clara could afford a little indulgence today (due to the fact that she'd hadn't had to pay for a return barge trip from Chelsea) she couldn't splurge on the printed word the way she was usually wont to do, either. Better not to tempt herself in case she'd need ready cash later for something connected to the wardship case. Instead, she plucked a copy of Chrétien de Troyes' _Arthurian Romances_ off the shelf and paged idly through it; it was something she already owned—and had brought to London too, for that matter—so there would be little temptation.

Master Scrope finished the transaction with the other customer, who left with a stack of books under his arm, and then turned his steps to where Clara was standing with a book in her hands, which she snapped closed and replaced on the shelf when she heard him coming.

"Master Scrope, good day," she greeted warmly as he approached.

"My dear Lady Tyrell, how good it is to see you," Nicholas Scrope replied warmly. And Clara didn't doubt that he was glad to see her, since she was both a fellow Reformer and a long-standing customer. "What brings you to London?"

"I'm here to contest the granting of my son's wardship elsewhere," Clara explained.

"Wardship? Then your husband..." Scrope looked down at her clothing again, comprehension dawning in his green eyes. "I'm very sorry to hear it."

"Thank you," Clara said softly. "But my brother has informed me that all work and no play will give me headaches, so I am here to find something new to read. Has our German friend published anything new of late?" she inquired, using a not-very-subtle allusion to Martin Luther.

"As a matter of fact..." Master Scrope replied, beckoning her to the back of the store where the door leading to the cellar was half-hidden behind a shelf. "Tom, mind the front," he called, and Clara could hear Tom—Thomas Scrope, Nicholas' son—consent and move down the stairs to the shop floor as Nicholas Scrope led her down to the cellar where he kept the illegal books, most of which were imported from Antwerp and some which had been printed here in this very shop.

Scrope was making a beeline for a stack of books near the printing press, looking rather cheaply printed and bound—probably done so on the very press before her—and Clara hoped the price would reflect the appearance. He took one up and handed it to her, saying, "You'll have heard that the King wrote a pamphlet against Luther,_ Assertio Septem Sacramentorum_? Well, Luther wrote a response to that pamphlet, and Thomas More wrote a response to Luther's response, and I've printed all three of them up here and bound 'em together. Although," he added, frowning suddenly and plucking the pamphlet out of Clara's hands, "mayhap you oughtn't have that one. More uses words that no lady should read."

Clara's eyebrows flew upward in surprise. She couldn't imagine kindly, courtly Thomas More writing anything any lady should be ashamed to read, or indeed behaving badly before any woman (at least, if she wasn't a heretic. Then, all bets were off). Now she had to read this series of pamphlets. "Now you've whetted my curiosity," she said, picking up another copy of the book and clutching it to her chest. She could feel the low quality of the paper against her fingers, and knew this wasn't going to be a book that would last even to be handed down to Arthur (even if she didn't find herself burning it one day to avoid heresy charges).

Scrope threw up his hands with a sigh, muttering to himself about knowing better and overly-curious women. Clara, knowing these words weren't for her, politely pretended that she couldn't hear every syllable as clearly as if he'd spoken directly into her ear. Besides, it wasn't as though the man was actually upset—he'd just sold a book, after all.

"Have you anything else?" Clara inquired, peering at the titles of the books around her. Most of them were things she either owned or had read before.

"We do have something new from Tyndale," Scrope informed her, beckoning her over to another shelf. "Published this very year, it was. _The_ _Obedience of a Christian Man_," he read, handing her the book, which was more finely bound with a leather cover, though it still looked quite shabby when compared to the books upstairs. Of course, the books upstairs didn't need to be smuggled into the country, so it was quite understandable. "This is an edition printed in Antwerp."

Clara opened the cover and ran her fingers across the pages; the paper wasn't of much higher quality than the other book, tucked under her arm, but it was covered with leather (albeit cheap leather), and the type was clear. _The Obedience of a Christen man, and how Christen rulers ought to govern, wherein also (if thou mark diligently) thou shalt find eyes to perceive the crafty convience of all iugglers _was what the title page read. "What is it about?" she inquired.

"Master Tyndale argues that we've no need of popes, that the rulers of the Christian lands ought to see to spiritual matters themselves," Scrope explained, the intense tones in his stout voice conveying how fervently he agreed with this sentiment. Of course, he was from a long line of reform-minded Christians. "I think Master Tyndale wrote it with a mind of having his Majesty read it," he went on, jerking his chin at the book in her hands.

"I doubt that will ever happen," Clara replied with a sigh. King Henry was a devout Catholic—he'd written against Luther in the very book she was cradling in her arms, and the Pope had been so impressed that he'd named him Defender of the Faith. It would of course be pleasant if the King were to one day open his eyes to the corruption of the Church and follow the example of the German princes and restructure the Church along Lutheran lines, with no need for priests or penance and with the Gospel available to all... and while she was constructing this ideal world, she'd like custody of her son and for her husband, her daughter, her sister, and her friends to rise from the dead. All of these things were at least as likely as the others to occur.

"Oh, I don't know," Scrope said slowly, raising his bushy grey eyebrows significantly. Clara tilted her head in a wordless inquiry, and he elaborated, "They say Lady Anne's of a like mind to us. There's hope she might be able to open his Majesty's eyes to the truth."

Really? Anne Boleyn was a reformer? That was something Clara hadn't yet picked up through listening to London speak. Then again, she'd only been there for about three days and had only been out among the citizens for a couple of hours this afternoon. She'd heard a bit about the woman who'd caught the King's fancy, and on whose behalf the King was trying to annul his marriage to Queen Katherine. Personally, Clara didn't think the King ought to set aside the Queen—it wasn't her fault she couldn't bear a son, and it set a bad precedent for marriage in general—but she might change her mind if Anne, as Queen, would steer King and country in the direction of the reformed religion. But did Lady Anne have enough influence over the King to do such a thing? Would she ever? Clara would have to listen closely, and perhaps try to actually have a conversation (albeit a careful one) with Lord Sedley to see if he had any insights; he did spend most of his time at court, after all. Perhaps, if she was particularly lucky, she might one day be able to meet Anne Boleyn and find out for herself.

"I'll take this one, too," Clara decided, tucking Tyndale's book into the crook of her arm with the other. This was probably all she could afford today, but she made a circuit of the cellar anyway, ending at the crown jewel of Scrope's collection, kept on a stand in the driest part of the room: a Wycliffe bible that was at least a century old.

It was a lovely piece of work, written on fine vellum. There wasn't much illumination—which stood to reason, since most books were illuminated in monasteries and John Wycliffe had been a so-called heretic—but several capitals were painted with soft colours and the margins had a few abstract designs painted alongside the text. Clara felt sometimes she'd go naked if it meant she could buy this book, one of the very first bible translations into English and a piece of history, but she also knew that Scrope would never sell it, either. This book had been handed down from father to son for generations. The Scrope family had been Lollards since the fifteenth century, believing in church reform before Luther, reading the scriptures in English before Tyndale. As such, Nicholas Scrope, or his wife Elizabeth, or their son Thomas, would have to be in the direst of straits before they'd even consider selling this bible.

Thankfully, Master Scrope had a sense of humour, and he quipped jokingly, "Still not for sale, Lady Tyrell. You can touch it if you like, though."

"Thank you," Clara replied with a grin, running her index finger delicately down the margin. As she did so, her eye caught a name among the text, which was open to the book of John: Simon. Her lips twisted in an interesting cross between a sneer and a smile as the name sparked a memory. "What hear you of Simon Wayte?" she inquired, turning to look at Scrope.

"He's still with the Duke of Norfolk, though he's chief clerk now, I believe," Scrope replied. "He comes in occasionally—you might even see him about and around," he added teasingly, chuckling when Clara made a disgusted face.

Simon Wayte was a servant to the Duke of Norfolk, and a patron of Scrope's Books before Clara even knew the store existed. He had been the one to direct her to Scrope's Book and Print Shop and the cellar full of heretical books, and therefore had effected a profound influence on her life. Clara credited Wayte with both introducing her to Lutheranism and for giving her a second example of how her tendency to eavesdrop and gossip could be used to good purpose (though she doubted many other people would see it that way). Despite the impact he'd had on her and the fact that she was grateful to him for opening her eyes to the truth and helping her shake off the cobwebs of superstition from her soul... despite all that, if Clara could be said to hate one person on earth, that person would probably be Simon Wayte.

She dismissed Wayte with a toss of her head. "I'll be taking these two," she announced, tucking her new books into her satchel, positioning them carefully between her folio and Thomas More's law book so that a person would have to go digging through her things to see her new acquisitions. "I wish I could stay longer, and peruse more of your stock, but I'm trying not to raise any questions among my family, who think I'm on an errand. If I tarry overlong I'll have to make something up, and that never goes well."

"Indeed not," Scrope agreed. "You can't lie to save your life, Clara. I thank God you've never been caught by the church. If you had, they'd be at my doorstep the next morning."

Though his tone was light and teasing, his eyes were serious, and Clara took his implicit warning for what it was. _Don't get caught_, _Clara_, was what he was saying. _Don't get caught, because it's not only your own life at stake._ No man—or woman, in this case—was an island. If Clara was taken, she would be persuaded, tricked, or tortured into giving up the others, and they would all burn at Smithfield together.

"I draw no one's attention," Clara said quietly. "I tell no one of my beliefs. I'm a nobody from the country; no one has any reason to suspect me of anything."

"And that will be your greatest defence—and mine," Scrope replied.

Clara paid 15 shillings for her two books and left shortly thereafter. She practically ran back to Whitefriars, wanting to be back in Lord Sedley's house before dark. If she didn't return until after sundown, Marion would fret and demand to know where she'd been and what had taken so long; Clara would have to lie about spending more time at the Cromwell house than she had; and Marion—and possibly Agnes and several servants as well—would be able to read the lie off her face in an instant. Things would snowball from there. If she wanted to avoid that kind of scene, which would endanger both her legal case and her life, she needed to return before nightfall, so no one would ask any questions.

Breathing heavily, she slipped inside Sedley's gates as the sun sank behind the roofs of London. She'd been alternatively running and walking very briskly the whole way, and had a painful stitch in her side. But she made it back in time—not a moment too late, as it seemed, since Marion was sitting in a chair by the door, her feet tapping nervously and her shoulders tense.

She got to her feet the moment she saw Clara walking in. "There you are," Marion said warmly, coming towards her sister-in-law with open arms. "I was worried—I wish you hadn't gone alone," she added worriedly, embracing Clara tightly. "Anything could've happened to you—you could've been robbed or kidnapped or... or had your honour insulted or been sold into slavery..."

"You've been reading my romances, haven't you?" Clara asked flatly, assuming those books was the source of Marion's more outlandish fears (since she didn't have much imagination on her own). "I've been wandering around London unmolested for years." The key was, according to the people she'd talked to before starting such sojourns, staying out of the dangerous areas, wearing unremarkable, inexpensive clothing, and leaving one's purse at home.

Footsteps caught her ear, and Clara pulled out of Marion's embrace in time to see Agnes coming down the hallway. "There, you see?" the shorter blonde challenged, directing her words to Marion with a scowl. "She's fine. I told you she would be."

Clara winced. It seemed Agnes and Marion had not been getting on any better than they had this morning—in fact, it seemed they'd gotten worse.

Having said her piece to Marion, Agnes shifted her focus to Clara, shucking the scowl and letting a brilliant smile bloom in its place. "Well? What news from Shoreditch?" she inquired.

"Let me put my things in my room and wash my hands, and I'll gladly tell you," Clara promised, wanting to hide her new books. Agnes and Marion consented and shooed her upstairs, though Marion looked as though she wanted to follow. Thankfully, Clara was able to forestall that by asking that she look in on Arthur and tell him that Mama was back and would see him for supper.

Up in her chambers, she quickly shoved her the illegal books under the mattress and washed her face and hands before returning to the withdrawing room downstairs off the great hall where Agnes had said she'd be. She'd beat Marion down; only Agnes was in the room at present, sitting in a x-framed wooden chair. "Wine?" she inquired, gesturing at a silver pitcher on the table.

"Yes, thank you," Clara accepted, taking the seat next to Agnes and a silver goblet with some warm, spiced wine. The night was getting chilly, and the heat of the wine as it seeped into her hands was welcome. "Will Lord Sedley be joining us this evening?" she wondered, wanting to ask him about Thomas Cromwell and Anne Boleyn.

"I doubt it," Agnes said with a disdainful little flick of her golden hair. "He prefers to dine at court."

Clara frowned a little at that. She was disappointed that she wouldn't be able to find out any more about the people she was interested in tonight, yes, but she was also getting the idea that Agnes' marriage was not a happy relationship. She'd yet to see the two of them together—and had only met Hugh Keriell, Lord Sedley once—so she couldn't quite judge, but wasn't that an indication in and of itself? If they avoided each others' company so assiduously...

She felt a little sad. Though her and Agnes' marriages had been arranged for them, hers had developed into a warm and loving sort of friendship, and she still missed Robin's company. It seemed Agnes' marriage had gone the other way. "You and he...?" she asked tentatively.

"He's a dull, boring, humourless old man," Agnes burst out scornfully. "We've nothing in common—I know he thinks I'm some empty-headed girl—and I wish my father had given me to anyone else."

"I'm sorry," Clara murmured, reaching out to squeeze Agnes' hand, before drawing away; she could hear Marion's footsteps approaching. "How is my son?" she asked as her sister-in-law entered the room.

"Excited to see you," Marion replied, taking a seat on the other side of Clara. "He wants to know if you've found the magic words yet."

Clara laughed lightly. "It will be a terrible disappointment to tell him 'not yet'. Although perhaps this little episode will teach him patience," she mused.

"So what did happen today? What did Cromwell say?" Agnes pressed, leaning forward in her chair.

"I didn't meet him; he wasn't at home," Clara admitted. "I did speak with his nephew Richard, who promises to give the Cardinal's letter to his uncle tonight. I gave him my present address, and I hope we'll be able to arrange a meeting within a few days."

"What was the house like? I've heard Master Cromwell is terribly rich," Agnes inquired, blue eyes gleaming.

"He is," Clara replied, lowering her voice confidentially. "In the room I saw, where Master Richard received me, there were oaken chairs carved with trees and flowers and covered with silk, Venetian glass goblets on the tables, and there was even a Turkish carpet... on the floor!" Agnes and Marion were appropriately impressed. "His nieces were sneering at my dress, though," she added with a frown, looking down at her skirts. "Am I terribly unfashionable?"

"Yes," Agnes responded immediately. "For a lady of your stature and income, Clare, you dress like a fishwife."

"I don't, either," Clara protested. "I saw a fishwife today... I was much better dressed than she was."

"Not by much," was Agnes' blunt assessment. "Those sleeves are at least three years out of fashion, your cloth is obviously cheap, as are your cap and the trimmings, and the cut of your bodice does your figure no favours."

This was so similar to what the maidens in the Cromwell house had said that Clara was forced to concede she was not very well dressed at all. "Oh."

"You just... skimp a bit too much on your clothing allowance," Marion allowed, trying to be kind. "It's not as though you need to be fashionable in Leicestershire."

"And you're not," Agnes cut in. "Neither of you are fashionable—you're both obviously from the country. And dare I hope this increased attention to your attire means that you'll finally, finally permit me to overhaul your wardrobe?" she asked hopefully.

"Maybe, after this whole wardship debacle is over," was all Clara would say. She'd have to see how her budget looked, and if there were any new and interesting books she wanted before she left London. After all, if she and Arthur and Marion were just going to retire back to the country, there'd be no point in getting a new and fashionable wardrobe. But if things went differently...

"It might help now," Agnes pointed out. "If you dress a little better—more according to your means—the courts might take you a little more seriously. If you look shabby, they might think you haven't the money to raise your son, and give him elsewhere."

This hadn't occurred to Clara before, and brought her up short. Agnes had a point. She looked down at her dress again with more critical eyes. Then she looked back at her friend, whose pretty face wore an expression of triumph. "All right, I need new clothes," she conceded grumpily. "But only one new dress, Agnes Keriell!" she warned sternly, seeing the massive grin overtaking her friend's lips. "And not until after I meet Master Cromwell. I need someone—him, or Sir Thomas, or Ben, or someone—to give me a better idea of the costs I'm going to be accruing during this venture so I can budget accordingly for my new clothing."

"And books," Marion added cheekily.

"And books," Clara agreed, with an expression of offended dignity.

The conversation thankfully steered away from Clara's afternoon and entrenched itself in the world of cloth and gowns and sleeves and other feminine accoutrements, and remained there until supper, forestalling any need to lie about what she'd really been doing this afternoon. After supper—which was, as Agnes predicted, bereft of Lord Sedley—Clara's world narrowed to the part of it which contained her son, and the rest of the night was entirely devoted to Arthur. She, Marion, and Agnes adjourned to the nursery and whiled the hours away amusing their children.

Once the boys were put to bed, Clara retired to her chambers, and dug out her new books from under the mattress. Taking up the in-house-bound book containing the pamphlets by the King, Martin Luther, and Thomas More, she settled down with a candle and started reading, wondering, as she opened to the first page, if Thomas Cromwell had read her letter (or rather, Wolsey's letter on her behalf), and when she might meet him.

* * *

In fact, Thomas Cromwell had read her letter (or rather, Wolsey's letter on her behalf). It was one of the first things that had been brought to his attention when he returned to his Shoreditch home.

It was past supper—as usual; he forgot the last time he'd dined with his family, but he suspected it was back when Anne and Grace were alive and Gregory was home from Cambridge—but Alice and Joan were in the withdrawing room, and came out to greet him when they heard him arrive. "Good evening, Uncle," Alice said brightly. "How was court?"

"About as usual," Thomas replied, smiling at his young nieces as he shucked his coat and chain—though not so young, now. Both Alice and Joan were nearly grown; within the next five years or so, he'd have to start thinking of finding husbands for them, as he now never could for his own daughters. "And how was your day?"

Joan shrugged a little. "It was a day," she dismissed lightly.

"We... er, we tried to do some of the household accounting," Alice admitted, looking sheepish. "Er."

Thomas arranged his face, hiding both his amusement and annoyance. Judging by the tone of her voice, Alice and Joan's foray into running the house had not gone well. A shame, that; since Liz's death, he had been the one dealing with the household accounts, and it was a rather onerous duty that he'd be happy to be rid of if he could find someone else to do it. Apparently Alice and Joan weren't quite ready to don that mantle, though he made a mental note to take some time to teach them sooner or later. It would have to be him; there was no one else, since both their mothers, all their aunts, and their grandmothers were dead. Perhaps he should consider remarrying one of these days, if only to have someone run his household and raise the girls.

He put that thought away for later consideration, and glanced around for the missing child of his household (not including Gregory, who thankfully would be coming home crom Cambridge within a few weeks for the holidays). "Where's Richard?" Thomas wondered.

"Here, Uncle," came Richard's voice, and his footsteps coming down the stairs. "There's a letter from Cardinal Wolsey here. I went to fetch it for you." He emerged then into the hall, and once again Thomas was struck by his resemblance to his father, Morgan Williams. There was almost nothing of his sister Kat in Richard's face, save his eyes. Richard definitely had Kat's eyes, and they were fixed on his face as he handed said letter over, Wolsey's heavy red seal prominent on the parchment.

"From Wolsey?" Thomas repeated, slightly confused as he accepted the missive and peered at it. Why would Wolsey send a letter here, to Austin Friars, when they'd been at Whitehall together all day?

"It was brought by a woman who needs your help, who came by the house this afternoon," Richard explained. "Lady Tyrell, she said she was."

"She was a lady?" Joan asked scornfully. "She dressed like a farmer's wife."

"She was very unfashionable, and very plain," Alice agreed, but her fair skin was turning pink from a blush. "But I think she heard us talking about it—she was scowling at us, a little, as she left."

Richard cast his cousins a flat look. "That's what you get for being indiscreet and discussing it within earshot," he retorted with the lofty hauteur of an older brother.

"We weren't within earshot—!" Joan began to protest, but Thomas cleared his throat pointedly and the three fell silent.

He turned his attention to Richard, who knew more details of the matter. "Why was she here, this Lady Tyrell?" he inquired.

"Wolsey wrote on her behalf; something about a wardship case," Richard replied with a little shrug. "I don't know the specifics, but it should be in the letter."

A wardship case? He was the king's own secretary, and Wolsey was asking him to deal with a mere wardship case, when the child in question wasn't even a scion of one of the great magnates? "I'd better see to it, then," Thomas remarked, stifling a sigh.

"Will you take any supper, Uncle?" Joan asked.

"I ate at court, thank you," he demurred, already turning his steps upstairs. Thomas took the letter into his study, called for a servant to light the candles, and once the room was illuminated he sat at his heavy oak desk, whereat he broke Wolsey's red wax seal and opened the missive.

Indeed, Wolsey was asking him to deal with a wardship case, for one Clara Tyrell, the widow of Sir Robert Tyrell, who had been a courtier in his younger years but had since retired to a life in the country before dying of the sweat this past summer. Lady Tyrell was also the sister of Benedict Gage, another of Wolsey's men; Thomas knew him in passing as an amiable sort of man, if not the brightest courtier at Whitehall. By all rights, Wolsey should be seeing to this matter himself, save for the fact that George Spencer, the man to whom Tyrell's son was to go, was connected to the Boleyns through Mary Boleyn's husband, and Wolsey didn't want to earn any more of their ire.

Frankly, Cromwell didn't want to draw their ire either, especially for something so small as a wardship of a country gentleman's son. Sir Robert Tyrell had been wealthy enough, with holdings in Leicestershire, Warwickshire, and Surrey, but he wasn't one of the first men in any of those counties. Personally, Thomas was a little surprised that Tyrell's son was being given elsewhere at all, the lands not being important or wealthy enough to merit it, but he had a feeling Thomas Boleyn was somehow involved. And if Lord Rochford was at all involved in the matter, Thomas Cromwell wanted nothing more than to stay entirely out of it. The very last thing he wanted was to make an enemy of the Boleyn family... especially because he had very high hopes for Lady Anne.

Thomas glanced over to the chest near the fireplace, also made of oak and secured with a lock. Inside, at first glance, laid only mementos of his late family—his daughters' christening gowns, a lock of Liz's hair, a drawing of Kat and Morgan Williams and some embroidery done by Bet. But under them was a cache of printed material, most of it from Antwerp and Germany, which, if discovered, would spell the end of his career at court and might even end his life as well. Included in that hoard was a recent publication by Tyndale, sent to him by Simon Fish, which Thomas was hoping to have an opportunity to place into Anne Boleyn's hands. She was sympathetic to the evangelical cause—he'd seen the French Bible in her rooms when he brought her messages from the king—and since she had the king's ear... since the king was currently involved in a messy dispute with the Roman See and might be open to alternative solutions should Campeggio fail to deliver the desired divorce...

They, the Reformers, had such an opportunity here, a chance to lead England out of the dim Catholic gloom and into the light of truth, a chance to create a haven for the enlightened to live free of persecution according to the gospels. He and Anne, together near the very top, close to the king, had a chance to work together and bring the word of God and the light of truth to England. And none of it would come to anything if he set himself against the Boleyns for sake of a country nobody.

Thomas sat back in his chair and watched the candlelight flicker over the spines of the books around him. This was a complicated situation. He owed much to Wolsey, who was still the Lord Chancellor and to whose patronage he owed his current prosperity, and Wolsey was asking Cromwell to help this woman. Yet if his ambitions for both himself and for the reformed church were to go anywhere, he could not make an enemy of the Boleyns.

Thomas sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face before picking up a quill and reaching for a sheet of parchment. He'd advise Lady Tyrell as best he could, but he'd have to explain to her that he couldn't get involved any further. He'd invite her back to Austin Friars so that he might do so in person... and so that he might look her in the eye, gauge her intelligence, determine how much help he could render her (depending on her ability to be discreet about the source of that help) and to elucidate his reasons to keep out of it... and see if he'd have to persuade her—forcefully, financially, or otherwise—to hold her tongue on the matter, and not go crying to her brother or the Cardinal. Thomas was balancing perfectly well at the moment his ties to Wolsey, his loyalty to the king, and his illegal, dangerous faith, but if one scale was tipped the whole thing would fall. Lady Tyrell had the power to upset his balance, and Thomas Cromwell had to convince her, one way or another, to leave his life alone.

* * *

**A/N part deux: **Clara keeps drawing things out, but I promise she and Cromwell will actually meet each other and have a conversation next chapter.

_Historical notes:_ Richard Cromwell/Williams is son of Thomas Cromwell's sister Katherine, and also the ancestor of Oliver Cromwell. He was technically born with the surname of Williams, but apparently changed it to Cromwell after the deaths of his parents.

Let me know if you see any errors or anything; I was kind of impatient to get this posted before I left for work, and my editing might not have been as thorough as it might've wanted to be. Maybe I should look into getting a beta reader or something.

Anyway. Please review!


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Onwards! I'm still pulling pretty much full-time hours at work (and being required to work close on weekdays occasionally, which means I have to go crash at a friend's house afterwards because there's no way for me to get home that late at night), so this one took a while to produce. There was also the fact that this was such a significant chapter that I wanted to make sure I got it right... but anyway, here the chapter is, finally! At least it's lengthy, right?

I also feel compelled to add that the religious sentiments conveyed by characters within this story are not sentiments that I myself share. I've got nothing against Catholicism, myself—some of my best friends are Catholics. However, some (most) of the characters herein are not so sanguine. I just wanted to make sure everyone knew that I'm not anti-Catholic. Religious toleration for all, that's my motto! But toleration was still a long way off in 16th century England, and the demands of the story require some expressions of attitudes and opinions which are not my personal feelings, and I just want to make sure everyone knows that the opinions contained within this story aren't necessarily my own.

* * *

**Chapter 4:**

_13 November, 1528_

Clara was able to add promptness as another trait to her imaginary Thomas Cromwell the next morning, when a messenger from Austin Friars came to Lord Sedley's house with a letter for Lady Tyrell. Said lady practically hurdled the tables and benches of the great hall in an effort to get to her letter, opening it violently and and accidentally elbowing Marion in the stomach as she and Agnes hovered at her shoulder, craning their necks trying to get a look.

"Sorry," Clara mumbled in absent apology, tilting the parchment towards the window and let the weak daylight illuminate the clear script on the page. Cromwell was acknowledging the letter from Wolsey and inviting her to return to the house in Shoreditch later this week for an actual meeting and a discussion about her options regarding Arthur's wardship. He requested that she send word of her preferences back with the messenger.

Once she finished reading, Clara looked up to meet the dark eyes of the runner, who was trying to keep his spotty young face impassive. She was suddenly aware of the picture she, Agnes, and Marion would've presented upon his arrival. Even now they looked strange, clustered around a letter and treating the whole thing as though it was news of the Second Coming. No wonder the youth (if he was any older than thirteen, she'd eat her own shoes) was trying hard not to laugh—Clara had started smiling herself. "Master...?" she began, lilting her voice upwards in a wordless query.

"Cooke," the boy supplied promptly. "Henry Cooke."

"Master Cooke," Clara repeated, letting the smile at the corners of her lips free to spread across her face. "I pray you wait while I compose a reply," she requested, and Cooke bowed awkwardly in acquiescence. She glanced over her shoulder. "Perhaps Agnes...?"

Agnes stepped away and turned a bright, kindly smile on the boy which made him flush pink. With her ebullient charm and sparkling blonde beauty, Agnes often had that affect on men. "Of course," she agreed. "Come this way, Master Cooke, and we'll see about getting you some ale while Clara writes her reply."

With that seen to, Clara immediately hurried up to the closet off her room, wherein Agnes had thoughtfully provided parchment, ink, quills and a portable writing desk in addition to the table and chairs already therein. It had taken barely an afternoon for her to make the space her own, and now there was a stack of books settled next to the little writing desk (but only the law books Clara had borrowed from Thomas More; her new acquisitions were still hidden under the mattress), all of which contained leaves of paper covered with Clara's slanting handwriting and a plethora of tiny drawings and doodles winding their ways down the margins of the page (law books were very, very boring, and Clara's attention span could only take it for so long). On the other side of the little desk was a stack of blank parchment, and it was for a sheet of that which Clara reached as she settled down before the table.

She'd just dipped her quill into the ink when she heard Marion approaching. Clara paused for a moment, but then decided to ignore her sister-in-law and keep on with her task. Marion knew she was busy at the moment, and this shouldn't take too long, anyway; it was just writing a quick note.

Marion entered the closet and moved to stand at Clara's left hand, watching her write, admiring the swift, graceful movement of her pale hand and the clear, swooping script that trailed along in her wake. Clara said nothing, focussing on her letter, and soon enough her sister broke the silence, unable to remain quiet for more than a few moments. "When will Master Cromwell be able to see you?" she inquired, peering over Clara's shoulder.

"I am setting the date for two days hence," Clara replied absently, dipping her quill back into her inkwell. "It is the earliest convenient date for the both of us." For him, anyway. Cromwell was a busy man, whereas she had vast acres of open time. She was tailoring her schedule to his. "We will meet in the evening—he's invited me to dine with him, after."

"I hope he's able to resolve this swiftly," Marion muttered grumpily. "I very much wish to return home."

Clara, mindful of the tension extant between Agnes and Marion, kept tactfully silent—especially because she was of a mind to remain in London, even after the hearing for Arthur's wardship was over. She'd forgotten how much she liked being in the city, despite the noise and the smell, during the years she'd been in the country. She liked the hustle and bustle, the vast quantities of information available to anyone who had the ears to listen, the way every day could bring something new and different if you had the desire to let it. She liked the nearness of her family and friends—Ben lived in London, and so did Agnes and Meg, and her bookstore was in the city too. If Arthur's custody was granted to her, Clara was of a mind to take a house either in or near London, and raise her son at least part-time therein, letting him spend more time with his Uncle Benedict and learn courtier's ways as he grew. Marion wouldn't like it—Marion would hate it, as a matter of fact, which was why she wasn't going to say anything right now—but Clara had confidence in her ability to talk her sister around... eventually. Perhaps if they spent more time together, Marion and Agnes would like each other better?

_Don't put the cart before the horse, Clara_, she reminded herself, and merely said mildly, "I'm certain Master Cromwell will do his best for us."

She finished writing her reply and sprinkled it with sand, letting the ink dry as she rummaged among her things for the sealing wax and the Tyrell seal, hers by right to use until Arthur came of age. Shaking the sand off the page and folding it up, she used the candle on the table to drip wax onto the paper before pressing the seal into it, imprinting the viscous red material with the Tyrell coat of arms. Then she took up the letter and went back downstairs.

Young Henry Cooke was being plied with bread and ale in the great hall, trying to be subtle about the way he was watching Agnes, who was embroidering in the window-seat, and patently failing. He only noticed Clara's presence at his side when she deliberately stepped into his line of sight, which made him startle and wipe his mouth hurriedly. "Lady Tyrell!" he squeaked, stumbling to his feet and bowing awkwardly.

"For Master Cromwell," Clara said with a grin, handing him the letter. "Thank you."

Cooke left shortly thereafter, and the three ladies repaired to Agnes' closet. "Well?" Agnes pressed. "What's going to happen?"

"I'm going back to Shoreditch to meet with Master Cromwell on Monday," Clara replied, feeling a thrill of excitement as she gave her plans voice. She was actually going to meet the man, and take another definitive step towards keeping Arthur with her. Then she looked down at her dress, and remembered the scornful, sneering voices of the girls in the Cromwell house. "Agnes, what should I... is there any...?"

"Let's go have a look at what you've brought," Agnes interrupted, correctly interpreting what Clara was trying to say. "Perhaps you could borrow some of my sleeves—you're taller and slimmer than I am, or I'd let you borrow a gown, too. We'll make you as fashionable as we can."

The three of them passed the time until lunch among Agnes' gowns. Whatever else might be said of Lord Sedley, at least he made sure his wife was dressed well; the clothes-press was full of brightly-coloured silks, velvets, damasks, and fine Holland linens. Clara felt a quiet stab of envy as she looked at the all the gowns—not envy merely for pretty dresses (she could have pretty dresses of her own if she wanted them), but envy for what they represented: stylishness and beauty, which were apparently two things she was very much lacking, and two things which in London it would behove her to be.

With a soft sigh, she reached out for the skirt of a green silk kirtle—almost the same shade as the first spring buds which appeared on the trees after winter, and a colour which Clara had always been fond—feeling the softness of the fabric under her fingers and laying it against her other hand.

"Not that colour," Agnes interrupted, whisking it out of Clara's grasp with a flick of her wrist. "It makes you look jaundiced. This one is better." And she laid a sleeve of a soft petal-pink damask over Clara's arm.

Clara stroked the texture of the cloth for a moment, imagining herself in a gown of this colour, making wreaths of similarly-shaded rosebuds in the garden with Arthur and Marion, before shaking her head and laying it aside. "Not for another few years," she demurred, with one wistful look back at the pink damask. She had loved Robin well, and would mourn him until she was given a reason to do otherwise, whether by remarriage or by time. To do otherwise seemed... disrespectful.

"Robin wouldn't want you wrapped in black forever," Marion chided gently, taking back up the pink sleeve and wrapping it around Clara's shoulders. "He would've loved to see you in this colour—it makes you look like a rose," she added softly, fondly stroking her fingers down Clara's cheek.

Now Clara's imagination substituted a fantasy of Robin and Constance with her and Arthur in that garden. She would make a wreath of pink blossoms to adorn Connie's fair head, and Robin would place another on her own head, kissing her gently and stroking her face just like Marion was doing now. His sister was right: Robin would've liked her in pink, and she felt slightly sorry that she'd never worn it for him, sticking to the subtle blues, greys, and browns that she was used to wearing.

She came out of her daydream with a soft sigh, drawing the damask sleeve away from her face and looking down at it meditatively. When she looked up, she noticed that Agnes was grinning smugly and Marion had badly-concealed anticipation on her face. They both knew they'd won, and that Clara would definitely consider wearing something other than black within the next year. She frowned playfully at them, and tossed the pink sleeve back to Agnes. "I'll remain in full mourning for the present, thank you," she announced primly. "I'll reconsider after the new year."

"You might consider red," Marion suggested, her blue eyes lighting up with excitement. "You'd look lovely in a wine-coloured sort of red."

"Most certainly," Agnes agreed with a decisive nod. "And since you like green, you'd be better suited with a more emerald-green hue, perhaps with gold trim."

"But not too much gold—we don't want to overwhelm her fair skin," Marion warned, making Agnes nod in agreement.

Oddly enough, that seemed to be all it took to overcome most of the antipathy between the two women. Without a single sign of the previous coldness between them, Marion and Agnes spent the next few hours constructing Clara's theoretical future wardrobe. Clara herself sat quietly and let them go to it, simply happy that her friends were finally getting along, and finding her imagination piqued despite herself. She couldn't picture herself in claret-red velvet, but apparently Agnes and Marion were agreed that it would become her very well.

Reality intruded when Clara's dresses were brought in, and all three of them were forced to admit there wasn't much to be done. Even if she borrowed some of Agnes' sleeves, it would still be painfully obvious that they were sticking fine trimmings onto cheap cloth. For one, the only black sleeves Agnes had were made of either silk or brocade, whereas Clara's dresses were bombazine and broadcloth.

"I'm calling my dressmaker in this week," Agnes announced, in a tone of voice which just dared Clara to argue. "We must do something about your gowns. Honestly, aren't you wealthier than this? You'd think you were impoverished, the way you dress!"

"I like books," Clara mumbled defensively.

That afternoon, she went and spent time with Arthur, catching him up on his lessons. He was a clever boy, eager to learn and happy to spend time with his mother, and Clara was of a mind to cherish that while it lasted. Benedict arrived on a visit around mid-afternoon, and lessons were tabled immediately thereafter—especially since he let Arthur "ride" his horse. Which just meant Ben set the four-year-old on his saddle and led the mare placidly around the yard. To Arthur, though, this was the most amazing thing that had happened to him in a long while, and his bright laughter was a balm on the raw, empty places of Clara's soul.

Agnes invited Ben to stay for supper, and Ben accepted. As the sun began to sink down below the horizon, Arthur was taken inside for his own supper, still beaming brightly. "Thank you for that," Clara said softly to her brother as they all adjourned indoors.

"No thanks needed," Ben shrugged. "Arthur is my nephew, after all, and I'm the only man left in his life. It's my duty—and my pleasure—to see to these things... teach him to ride, to hunt, and such forth... in lieu of his father."

It occurred to Clara that, until Ben married and had a child of his own, Arthur was also the heir to the Gage properties as well—Benedict's heir. She supposed Ben knew it too, which was why he was so willing and eager to take a father's place with his nephew. "It's good for him, being with you," she commented. "He's surrounded by women at all times; it's good for him to spend time with a man every once and a while."

"And when you win the case and take him back to Ardley?" Ben asked archly, glancing askance at her.

Clara looked down at bit her lip before whispering softly, knowing that Ben and no one else would hear, "I'm of a mind to stay in London for a time after the ruling. Don't tell Marion."

"I'm glad to hear it," Ben whispered back, reaching out to squeeze her hand briefly. "I miss you when you're off in the country. We have to stick together, us Gages." _Because we're all that's left_, was what he left unsaid.

That night, at dinner, Clara got the hiccups again because Ben and Agnes made her laugh so hard. Even Marion relaxed a bit, actually entering the conversation instead of just sulking silently in the background. They all agreed to attend mass together, tomorrow. Personally, Clara couldn't attend mass nowadays without wanting to stand up and shout at the top of her lungs about how it was all wrong, how they were all deluding themselves, that they didn't need this priest to give them grace, that it was a free gift from the Lord, that they all ought just to go home and read the Bible—in English—because God didn't have to speak to the faithful in Latin, especially given that so many people (even, sometimes, the priests themselves) had no idea what was being said. Attending mass was becoming like sticking her hand in a bucket of spiders and just holding it there. But it was also something she had to do—she couldn't let anyone (not even her brother or her best friends) realise just how religiously radical she'd become of late.

Oh, Benedict, Agnes, and Marion knew she read Erasmus and More and Mirandola and all the humanist writers, knew she believed in church reform. Most people who knew her knew that. But they knew no more—she let them know no more. It was too dangerous at the moment for her, and for them. Ben was still a member of Cardinal Wolsey's household, after all, and Wolsey was still known to prosecute heretics when he found them. She didn't want her brother to be caught between his sister and his patron. And right now, with things so uncertain, she could let no hint of heresy touch her. Perhaps one day, though, she might pass along some of her books and enlighten those she loved to the truth and to the reality of God's love. One day, she would not have to pander to popish superstitions and ignorant, foolish priests mumbling Latin chants that had become practically meaningless due to years of rote repetition.

_And one day,_ she added wistfully to herself, rolling her eyes,_ I'll wear a petal-pink damask gown_.

* * *

_15 November, 1528_

Her appointment with Master Cromwell wasn't until evening, which meant Clara had to wait an entire day through. And it was torturous.

Having recovered from the journey to London, she woke early, as was her usual wont, after hearing the servants moving about after dawn. She fished the book containing the pamphlets by the King, Luther, and More out from under the mattress, and read in bed until she could hear her maid waking, at which point she concealed the tome again and rose. Donning yesterday's dress—she'd enlist Agnes to re-dress her in the most pleasing way possible when it was nearer to the time to leave for Shoreditch—she went down to breakfast.

She fidgeted and sighed her way through breakfast, and tried to fill the rest of the morning with useful employment—she saw to Arthur's lessons, read more law books, and even took up a needle for the first time in months to try and do some sewing—but she couldn't concentrate on any of it, always looking out the window to judge the passage of time (which was going far too slowly for her tastes).

Agnes, getting annoyed with Clara's constant twitching, sent her outside after dinner. Marion agreed, taking up the chemise which had been mangled by Clara's poor attempt at mending and remarking that her restlessness wouldn't make the time go faster. So out into London Clara went, wandering around the banks of the Thames and listening to the city speak.

The talk she overheard was mostly about the King's Great Matter, and about the effect it would have on the wool trade with the Low Countries; there was also some talk about the burnings at Smithfield, the price of wheat, the coming winter. _Things change, and nothing changes_, Clara though as she lingered in the shadow of a warehouse near the river, listening to the people around her. Little had changed in the years she'd been in the country. Oh, for certain some things had—the King's marriage had been a little less tense seven years back—but most things hadn't. Londoners had spoken about the same matters they had when Clara was a skinny maid tarrying in the shadows of a church as when she was a skinny widow tarrying in the shadows of a warehouse. Back then it had been the French wars and their affect on the wine trade, the heresies beginning to stream out of Germany, the price of cloth, the wet summer weather. Now it was but variations on the same theme. Was this what was meant when the Bible talked of there being nothing new under the sun?

As the sun began to sink slowly down towards the horizon and the shadows grew long, Clara turned her steps back towards Agnes' house, frowning thoughtfully. She would have to make time to go back to Chelsea sometime soon, to talk with both Thomas More and Meg. She wasn't understanding all the legal language and nuances in the books Sir Thomas leant her, and hoped he would help her straighten them out in her mind; she also wanted to talk to Meg, who was of a more philosophical bent than her other friends, about the thoughts she'd been mulling over this afternoon, about the changes of the world as opposed to its constancy and the presence of such sentiments in scripture. Though Meg was far her intellectual superior and could therefore be a little condescending on occasion, she always listened whenever Clara chewed over a new idea and often helped her sort out her thoughts.

But for now, philosophical tangles could wait. It was almost time to meet with Master Cromwell!

Clara scurried back into Lord Sedley's house, stopping only to inform Agnes and Marion that she was returned, before she hurried upstairs. She rang for hot water and removed her dusty garments, scrubbing herself down as best she could with Agnes' Castile soap once the water arrived. Marion came in as she washed and helped her brush her hair and tuck it under her best cap, a silk hood trimmed with jet beads, before lacing her into her best gown—which was still hopelessly unfashionable, but at least was made of more high-quality cloth. She gathered her papers together, kissed Arthur goodbye, and went down to where the carriage waited for her. Ben had suggested it might behove her to arrive with a little more style, and since even she wasn't daft enough to run about London in her best dress after dark, she bowed to the necessity of using the coach. And with one last look to Agnes and Marion—unsure if she was excited or nervous or what—Clara was off to Shoreditch.

* * *

It had been a rather light day at court, with few duties to see too—most likely because the King had gone out riding with Lady Anne, and did little business, thus requiring his secretary to write fewer letters and file fewer documents. Once he saw to the pile-up of correspondence and organised the business for tomorrow, Thomas Cromwell was quite at his leisure. He was therefore able to get home to Shoreditch much earlier than was his usual wont, which gave him several hours before he was to meet with Wolsey's impatient little petitioner.

Unfortunately, they weren't going to be relaxing hours. He had to see to the household accounts, the clothier's business he'd inherited from his late wife, his own legal practise (which was being quite subsumed by his career at court and would probably have to be laid quietly to rest sometime in the near future, or handed off elsewhere—perhaps to Gregory or Richard?), and answer his own correspondence, which his clerks and his nephew had thoughtfully organised for him. He was still at work—by candlelight, now—when Ralph Sadler, his chief clerk and a member of his household for nigh on ten years now, came upstairs.

"Wolsey's little petitioner is here," Ralph announced, referring to Lady Tyrell by the name she was known by in the household.

"Show her up," Cromwell ordered, gesturing with the quill. This was one of the last letters that needed to be written, and Lady Tyrell would just have to wait until he finished it.

He could hear Ralph's footsteps fade away as he went back downstairs, and then, after a few minutes, heard them return... alone. He frowned, though he didn't cease his writing, a section of his agile, well-organised mind spinning over what this might mean, even as the majority of it concentrated on his letter. Was Lady Tyrell going to refuse to wait on him, and demand that he, as a base-born commoner, come down to see her? It wouldn't be the first time he'd had the nobility attempt to treat with him thusly, but if this woman thought he'd stand for such behaviour in his own house she'd be sadly mistaken. She was seeking his help, after all, in his home, and as such they'd be dancing to his tune.

"Is she not coming, Ralph?" he inquired without looking up as he heard the door to his closet swing open.

"She's right here, master," Ralph replied awkwardly.

That made Cromwell look up in bemusement—he hadn't heard anyone else coming up the stairs—but sure enough, there was a slender figure in black standing behind Ralph. He stood to acknowledge her, beckoning her into the study with a bow and a gesture from the hand still holding the quill. "Lady Tyrell, welcome. Please, sit," he said, in a deliberately mild tone of voice.

"Thank you for seeing me, Master Cromwell," was her reply. Her voice was very soft, and the accent in it was purely southern. Though if asked to guess, Cromwell would wager she was not London-born, but London-bred, spending a lot of time in the city without being born and raised there.

He watched her as she moved to take the proffered chair, pausing to smile at Ralph and offer him quiet thanks for his escort, before he turned back to his letter, finishing the farewell and signing his name as he tried to get a lead on the woman before him. Much could be divined of a person's character by watching the way they reacted to being ignored. Many gently-born people would grow belligerent and irritated, angered—and therefore thrown off-balance—by his studied neglect.

Lady Tyrell, however, remained quiet. In fact, she was so quiet that Cromwell was hard-pressed to remember that she was in the room at all.

Though perhaps that was apropos, given who she was. He'd done some asking around court and around the city over the past few days, but there wasn't much information to be had. Clara Tyrell, Cromwell therefore concluded, was a nonentity—a country knight's daughter and a country knight's widow who would likely have lived out her life unmolested and unremarked in said country, save that her son was to be given to a Boleyn relative and she had decided, for some reason, to fight. And after her son was sent to Berkshire, she would likely return to her country lands and vanish entirely from the London scene. Lady Tyrell was a nobody, a nothing, a mere flicker in the firmament, and perhaps she was aware of it, too, if her silence was any judge.

Letter finished, Cromwell sat back in his chair and turned his level gaze to the woman in the chair before his desk, who was currently staring at his bookshelves. Lady Tyrell wasn't as badly dressed as his nieces had implied, but not by much, and her attire was at least a decade out of fashion. This was probably the best she had, which confused him slightly since he knew the Tyrell estates were solvent—more than solvent, actually, which was why Arthur Tyrell (who was also the current heir to the Gage properties) had come to the attention of Thomas Boleyn in the first place. She was young—early twenties, he'd wager—and rather plain, with pale skin, brown hair, and dark eyes, which she immediately turned in his direction once she realised he was finished writing.

Once she realised she had his attention, she smiled. "Thank you for seeing me, Master Cromwell—especially on such short notice. I know you must be a busy man," she said softly, but with a tangible warmth in her voice.

And almost unconsciously, Thomas Cromwell found his lips curling upwards in return.

It was an unexpected reaction; Cromwell was surprised at himself. He had long ago trained himself to keep his face impassive and his reactions hidden, to the point where his reputation at court was of a man stone-faced and ice-hearted. Yet he was also a master at reading the faces of others, of divining their thoughts and feelings from the most minute twitches and shifts in their facial expressions. There was no need for such delicate interpretations here, though; Lady Tyrell's sentiments were writ across her face in letters ten feet high. And he supposed the reason for his unusual reaction was simple: the message she was giving him was one he was not at all accustomed to receiving.

_I like you_, said her smile. There was no ambition, no wariness, and no artifice—it was just a pure, simple expression of pleasure in his presence... which in his personal experience was very, very rare. _I like you_.

But after a bare moment of revelling in the feeling, Cromwell ruthlessly hardened his heart. So what if the woman was sweet and honest and apparently liked him for some reason? He didn't really know her, and she was here to beg his help anyway; it wasn't as though she'd sought him out to disinterestedly offer friendship. So what if the purity and sincerity of her smile seemed to pour water on a parched expanse somewhere inside his soul? She'd change her tune when she learned more about him; most people did. So what if the kindness in her countenance changed her face from unremarkably plain to quite pretty? The court was full of women far lovelier than she—many of whom would willingly bed the king's secretary if they thought there'd be some advantage to be gained from it—and it was a moot point anyway, since he hadn't touched a woman since his wife's death more than a year ago. And so what if she intrigued him, a little, with her unexpected reactions to his behaviour? She wasn't the only interesting woman in England; he could find someone else to study if that perverse streak in his nature demanded satisfaction. None of these things mattered; he still had to reject her plea for assistance. His career at court, his family, his work for the reformed religion... all these things were more important than one woman, no matter how good and loving and kind she appeared to be.

He looked away, taking up Wolsey's letter and unfolding it, though he already knew what it contained. But it seemed wrong to sit there and smile at the woman, basking in her warmth of her amity when he was thinking of the best way to break the news of his non-involvement. "It seems you are involved in a wardship case, Lady Tyrell," he remarked, staring at Wolsey's writing without seeing it, seeking mostly to avoid the woman's eyes.

"I am indeed, Master Cromwell. George Spencer wants to take my son away from me, and I am not of a mind to let him," was her reply, her gentle voice laced with a fierceness that made him want to laugh. Lady Tyrell did not do fierce well—it was like a week-old kitten trying to puff itself up and act ferocious. "Arthur—my son—is all I have left," she went on. "My daughter Constance died in the sweat with my husband."

"Technically, it is the King who is of a mind to place your son with Master Spencer," Cromwell noted mildly, taking refuge in technicalities.

"The king?" Lady Tyrell repeated, obviously surprised. "What does... how does... I didn't think the King even knew who we were."

Cromwell looked up from Wolsey's letter to see the shock and bewilderment painted clearly across her face. Either she was making no effort to hide her feelings with him because she seemed to like him for some reason, or she made no effort to hide her feelings at all, ever. He had a feeling it might be the latter. "He doesn't. I believe it is Lord Rochford who is the driving force behind your son's wardship," he said bluntly.

"Lord Rochford?" she repeated, her smooth brow furrowing in confusion. "Who is Lord Rochford, and why does he care about where my son goes?"

"Lord Rochford is the father of Anne Boleyn. As to his interest in the matter, I must claim ignorance." Which wasn't entirely true; Cromwell had a feeling Thomas Boleyn was trying to give something to his daughter's late husband's relatives without either putting himself out or giving them too much and therefore having to deal with them in the future. William Carey, after all, was dead, and Cromwell imagined the Boleyns would prefer to be shed of his relatives, which they only acquired in a drive to salvage Mary Boleyn's reputation. Rochford was throwing Spencer a sop in the form of Arthur Tyrell's wardship, and would likely do no more for him after that.

Which, he mused inwardly, might actually give Lady Tyrell a chance. If she managed to put up enough of a fight for her son, Rochford might wash his hands of the whole matter. Of course, he might also take the defiance offered by this country nobody as a challenge to his authority, and not rest until she was destroyed. It would likely depend on Boleyn's mood and how much he didn't care about George Spencer, who was kin to William Carey's mother.

He wasn't going to tell her that, though. Especially if this openness was a constant, reliable trait of her character.

"Oh," was all Lady Tyrell said, frowning a little in thought. It was... strangely adorable. "I suppose his motives aren't important, though. I'm still going to challenge the ruling in the courts. Robin—my husband—gave Arthur's charge to me." She opened the leather folio she'd been holding in her lap and fished out a leaf of parchment. "It's in his will," she added, extending her hand and offering the document to him.

Cromwell accepted it and perused it quickly, eyes flicking over the Last Will and Testament of Sir Robert Tyrell. He did indeed leave guardianship of his son to his widow, along with the stewardship of the estates until Arthur came of age. There was also the usual folderol about bequests to the king and masses for his soul and gifts to favoured monasteries, and Cromwell quashed the urge to roll his eyes. But this will was probably going to be Lady Tyrell's best weapon in her case; her husband did indeed leave the raising of their son in her hands, laid out in plain language within his will.

"You know you'll have to produce the actual, witnessed will in court," Cromwell pointed out, looking up to meet Lady Tyrell's eyes. They were pretty eyes—doe's eyes, he recalled such eyes were termed—all large and dark and clear, surrounded by long eyelashes. And as he held their gaze, there was a swift flicker of something he might call cunning, were it not for the fact that he didn't think this honest young widow knew the meaning of the word.

"I know," she replied easily, with a cheery grin that gave the lie to that hint of guile he'd just seen. Or was it a way of hiding her shrewdness, and making people underestimate her? "But I didn't want anything to befall the actual document, so I keep it in a safe place until it's needed."

With her brother, was what Cromwell guessed. With her brother, or in a strongbox somewhere within Lord Sedley's house. Both were indeed safe places, and he wondered if the lady had done such a thing under her own initiative, or on someone else's advice. "As long as you're able to present it to the judges when the time comes," he said dismissively, folding the will back up and handing it back to her.

She tucked it carefully back into her folio, her movements orchestrated to make the least amount of noise. "That will be the least of my problems, I think," she commented. "But I doubt that's everything. I am no lawyer, Master Cromwell—hence why I have sought your counsel, for I have little knowledge of the procedures and minutiae of such a legal undertaking. I've never had cause to tangle with the courts before now, and find myself quite out of my depth," she admitted with a shy, sweet, rueful little smile that silently invited him to commiserate with and be amused at her inexperience, because she certainly was.

Cromwell winced inwardly, but outwardly kept his face impassive. He felt sorry that circumstances made him unable to help this woman—who seemed to be a good, humble, kind lady not lacking a sense of humour and a devoted, loving mother as well—but he was resolved on his course of action and would be swayed by no one. All he could do was hope she didn't make much of a scene afterwards, or go crying to someone more powerful. Perhaps she would understand—his impression of her was as a rather naïve but not unintelligent young lady. If he explained why he could not and would not help her, perhaps she would understand?

He snorted mentally. That was a jest in poor taste. She was, in all likelihood, going to be very, very upset.

"Lady Tyrell, let me be frank with you," he began, suspecting that she would respond better to honesty since she seemed so very honest herself. "This would be a very straightforward issue were the Boleyn family not involved."

"So I am beginning to gather. Sir Thomas More implied that my chances for success are... well, not very good, due to their involvement, but I am resolved to try anyway. _'For he that nought nassayeth, nought nacheveth'_," she quoted with a little shrug.

"Chaucer," he recognized. From _Troilus and Criseyde—'_he that attempts nothing will nothing achieve.'

Lady Tyrell nodded, flicking her eyes over to the bookshelf to his left; Cromwell followed her gaze to where a copy of the book in question rested, and let his eyebrows quirk upwards in surprise. Naïve she might be, but this woman, it seemed, was neither foolish nor unintelligent. Perhaps she would manage to win her case even without his help, especially if she already had Thomas More in her corner.

Or perhaps he was trying to make himself feel better about disappointing her.

"Still, setting yourself up as enemy to the Boleyns can be a dangerous prospect," he warned, trying to lead into the issue of his preferred non-involvement.

"_'__Audentes fortuna iuvat'_," was her reply this time. _Fortune favours the bold_.

"We do not all have your boldness, Lady Tyrell," he said, mentally noting that she knew at least a little Latin as well. Someone had educated her—and done so better than her brother, whose Latin was excremental.

His opinion of her intelligence rose still further as a dawning comprehension lit in her dark eyes, and her pretty face took on an expression of wariness. "I do not think myself so very bold, Master Cromwell. I only seek to keep that which is mine," she replied quietly. "Surely there is no... there can be nothing wrong in that."

_No_, he allowed silently. _No, there is nothing wrong in a mother seeking to keep her son—in principal, anyway. But in doing so, here and now with everyone involved being who they are, you are treading on some rather sensitive toes. And you don't even seem to be aware of it—or if you know, you care not_. Cromwell wondered how it was possible for one woman to be simultaneously so oblivious and so clever. "Lord Rochford would doubtless disagree."

"And you?" she asked, fixing her big brown eyes on his face with a stubborn determination not to hear what he was trying to tell her. "Do you disagree, Master Cromwell?"

"I am but the king's humble servant, Lady Tyrell," he demurred, looking away from her face, and the waiting fear therein. He didn't want to watch her crumble; he already felt as though he was kicking a puppy.

"And as such you are not allowed an opinion of your own?" she asked snippily.

It seemed that all Lady Tyrell had been doing for the entire evening was surprising him. This time, Cromwell was shocked at her audaciousness at saying such a thing so bluntly to a personage so much more powerful than she. If he were a different sort of man, those words could've gotten her summarily thrown out into the street, lady or not.

If said lady was aware of the dangerous things passing her lips, she showed little sign of it on her face, which otherwise reflected her every thought. Instead, she held his gaze, wordlessly demanding an explanation from him, refusing to back down. "Cardinal Wolsey said you would help me."

"Cardinal Wolsey..." he sighed, steepling his fingers under his chin, "is already known as an enemy of the Boleyns."

"And you haven't the stomach to be known thusly?" Lady Tyrell challenged angrily.

"Neither the stomach, nor the desire," Cromwell replied, letting a slight edge of sharpness enter his voice. He had been very tolerant with her, but his patience was not endless, and she was coming to the end of it.

Lady Tyrell heard it, though. The frown was immediately erased from her face to be replaced with an expression of uneasiness laced with nascent despair, and he watched her swallow around a lump in her throat. "But where does this leave me? What do I do?" she asked helplessly. "Have the Boleyns become so very powerful than none will cross them? What right have they to take a son from his mother?"

"Lady Tyrell, I know you're not a stupid woman," Cromwell began tiredly, feeling a little annoyed with her wilful obtuseness and the way it was wasting his time. "You must understand that the situation is not as simple as you would have it."

"I think it is," she retorted, glaring at him. It wasn't much of a glare, truth be told, but it was a vast alteration from her earlier friendliness, and Cromwell noted the change with a slight sting of regret. In other circumstances, he would've liked to befriend this woman, if only so he could slake his own curiosity and pin her character down. "Arthur is my son. Robin's will says I have the charge of raising him. And as a member of a family wholly unconnected with the Boleyns, the Careys, or the Spencers, I think they have no right to tell me where my son will be raised. And would you please stop looking at me like... like..." she added, scowling at him angrily as she fumbled for an appropriate simile. "As though I were raving like a strumpet in a tantrum!" she concluded with a toss of her head.

That brought Cromwell up short—he recognised that turn of phrase. "You've read Martin Luther, Lady Tyrell?" he inquired, using the distant, even tone of voice he'd perfected for the discussion of any and all topics connected to church reform.

Lady Tyrell went still, like a rabbit that had just been sighted by a fox. Her brown eyes went wide, and she regarded him with shock and naked fear as all the colour washed from her face. Then she seemed to realise, and tried to arrange her features into an expression of unconcern. She failed miserably, of course—her terror was still clear in her eyes, and in the trembling of her hands and chin. "No, of course not," she lied.

"'Raving like a strumpet in a tantrum', was what you said," Cromwell pressed. "That was the precise turn of phrase used by Luther to describe our noble King in a reply to a pamphlet his Majesty composed. The precise phrase, madam." He narrowed his eyes, and stared at the pale woman sitting motionless before him. Was she an earnest, true believer, a friend to the cause, or a mere dilettante? Did she know of his sympathies, and was that why she quoted Luther? Or was she simply more blatantly unwise than he'd believed possible? "What other heretical tracts have you read?"

"None. I've read no banned books at all. I am no heretic—I am a true and faithful daughter of the holy Catholic Church," she insisted frantically, her eyes huge and terrified in her white face.

But he could read the lie on her face with ease, could see her hands shaking, and the way her breath was coming in quick pants that made her chest flutter like a bird's and the pulse pounding in her slender neck. And what with the way her eyes were moving, darting anxiously from his face to the bookshelves to her lap, he could practically hear her tallying up the list of forbidden books in her head... and if he was any judge, it was a very, very long list. "You're lying, Lady Tyrell," he informed her frankly. "I think you are no good Catholic at all."

That said, he rose from his desk and moved towards the oaken chest in the corner next to the fireplace, pausing only to pluck a small iron key out from behind a codex of Italian legal codes before bending to unlock the coffer. He quickly lifted the false top and rummaged among his books for something written by Luther. Grabbing _Concerning Christian Liberty_, he stood and turned back towards Lady Tyrell... and stopped dead.

She was hunched over in the chair, nearly bent double as though curling around a wound, with her face buried in her hands. Thomas knew she was weeping; he could see the jerking spasms in her shoulders as she cried silently. And in that moment, with her face hidden and her body wracked with tears, she looked so much like his late sister Bet that Thomas had to blink a couple of times to clear the fantasy from his eyes.

Many were the times he had seen Bet weeping just thusly in the Putney house in which they'd been raised—usually after she'd been struck by their father, or after she'd watched the striking of either himself or Kat. Kat had also suffered silently in this fashion, though he couldn't recall it as clearly, since she was the eldest and hadn't liked letting him and Bet see her sobbing. And surely he himself must have cried a time or two after being at the wrong end of Walter's fists, though he had no clear memory of it, having learned to suppress his tears at a very young age. Mostly, his memories were of seeing his sisters cry thusly, silent and self-contained in their misery. After all, one learned quickly to weep without noise in the house of Walter Cromwell, lest one wanted another smack to compound the first.

Pulling himself out of the past, Cromwell took a couple steps near to where Lady Tyrell was curled in on herself, then halted abruptly when she fearfully raised her head to look at him, eyes red and swollen with tears. Her face was otherwise a picture of dread and despair, laced with miserable resignation—as though she knew he was going to hurt her heinously, knew there was nothing she could do to alter it, and was steeling herself to suffer at his will. It was the very same sort of look he, Bet, and Kat had given their father, knowing that sooner or later he'd raise his hand to one of them. The fact that he, Thomas, was being regarded like Walter was like a sudden dousing in freezing water.

He'd made it the study of his adult life to be nothing like his father. If Walter was a drunken lout, Thomas would be an abstemious gentleman. If Walter beat his children and terrified his neighbourhood, Thomas would be a loving, tender father and a generous, kindly patron. If Walter had a secession of women in and out of his bed, Thomas would restrain his carnal desires and remain faithful to his wife. While Walter had constantly been sued and cited for his behaviour, Thomas was himself a lawyer and had never been on the wrong side of the law (or at least, not since his return to England). While Walter was a lazy, indolent thug who only did enough work to buy drink and was often found beating money out of someone smaller, Thomas was the first to wake and the last to bed as he saw to his affairs, and to those who sought his advice in regards to their own businesses. It was a point of pride with him, that Walter Cromwell's only legitimate son (he had no illusions that he was Walter Cromwell's only son) should be so unlike him.

Thomas thought back over the past few minutes, and realised he had been immeasurably cruel to poor Lady Tyrell. He'd led her to believe that he was a heretic hunter instead of a reformer. The poor woman probably thought she was going to die, thought he was going to turn her into the church authorities and see her burned at Smithfield. She didn't know that he was a fellow believer because he wilfully hadn't told her, having been more interested in watching her pitiful attempts at lying than in telling her the truth. It smacked of Walter, of his sadistic amusement in watching his family squirm in fear before lashing out with fist, boot, or bottle.

It seemed he was not so different from his father as he'd thought—not if he had frightened a humble petitioner, a lady who had only sought his help, into tears. Not if he amused himself with her fear and thereafter made her weep like his sisters had once wept, quaking silent in fear of a man.

No, not 'a man'... him. Lady Tyrell was weeping in fear of her life because of him, Thomas Cromwell.

It made him feel like scum.

Thomas slowly approached the chair where Lady Tyrell sat, noticing the way she cringed away from him, hiding her face behind her hair and drawing further into a ball, as though trying to present a smaller target. Were it not for the fact that her chestnut-brown hair was sleeker and fairer than Bet's, he could swear it was his sister here right now, cringing away from Walter. The comparison made him cringe himself, and there was a special gentleness in his movements as he took the lady's hands, cold and trembling, and placed both his handkerchief and Luther's book into them.

"Here now," he said softly. "Dry your tears, madam. I mean you no harm."

He went back behind his desk, knowing Lady Tyrell would be doubtless be more comfortable if he put some distance and a heavy piece of furniture between them. But he watched intently as her tapered fingers took up the handkerchief, dabbing timidly at her tear-streaked face while still trying to avoid his gaze. And he noticed the very instant she comprehended just which book he'd put into her hands, for her pale hands stilled, her slender shoulders relaxed infinitesimally, and she peered warily up through her damp lashes at him.

The question in her reddened eyes was clear, and Thomas allowed himself a reassuring smile. "Yes, you're not the only one in the room familiar with the works of Brother Martin. I've got an entire chest of such works," he told her plainly, gesturing to the open coffer. "Do not fear, Lady Tyrell. You are a friend to the gospel, as I am, and need have no fear that I will reveal you to the Church authorities," he assured her, hoping she would hear the sincerity in his voice and cease to shrink from him. While he knew at the start of their meeting that he'd have to destroy that sweet smile she'd given him, he had rather thought to replace it with anger, and not fear. While Thomas Cromwell had made people weep before and would likely do so again, he truly did not enjoy having women dread him, especially for no good reason; it smacked of Walter.

Lady Tyrell nodded silently, stifled another sob by drawing in a slow breath, and turned her gaze back to the book in her lap. But she had understood his words, and he watched the tension drain slowly out of her body. Thomas wondered idly where she had learned to be so noiseless in everything she did... and, given how much she put him in mind of Bet, what kind of father Sir John Gage had been.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, with Lady Tyrell's eyes fixed firmly on her lap and Thomas Cromwell's fixed firmly on her. He was waiting for her to speak, but apparently he'd frightened the earlier boldness right out of her—she wouldn't even meet his eyes, let alone give him sauce. And as he watched her fingers twist the fabric of his handkerchief, he wondered what he should do now.

Thomas supposed he could just reiterate his inability and disinclination to help with her case and send her on her way. That would certainly be the end of the issue. Knowing what he knew now (and with her knowing he knew), there was no possibility that Lady Tyrell would dare complain to Wolsey or anyone else about the treatment she'd received from him. Bereft of his expertise, she would likely lose her son to George Spencer and thereafter return to the country, and they would never cross paths again.

That would be the sensible thing to do: get rid of this woman swiftly, cut her loose before her callow candour brought the both of them down. Just as he knew things about her, she too knew things about him—a dangerous state of affairs, given her complete inability to keep her thoughts hidden. (He could just imagine how it would go: she'd say the wrong thing to the wrong person and get hauled up before Tunstall or Gardiner (or worse, locked in Thomas More's cellars), and questioned. _Lady Tyrell, have you any friends in the city? Yes? Know you aught of Thomas Cromwell?_ And whatever denials she might speak would be overthrown by the truth in her wide-eyed, washed-out face. It astounded him, frankly, that she had managed this long as a heretic in London with so little aptitude for deception... and with such little control over her tongue. Did she go about quoting Luther to all and sundry?)

That would be the rational course of action. And Thomas Cromwell was, above all, a rational man.

So why did he recoil from the mere thought? Why did he wish to draw her out of her silence and explain himself, and try to salvage something from the wreckage of this evening?

Perhaps it was because she reminded him of Bet when she cried. Perhaps because he felt guilty for having made her done so, and humbled by the way she'd shown him he hadn't come as far from Putney as he'd thought. Perhaps it was because she was a sister in Christ, and he'd frightened her to tears. Perhaps it was because he understood her desperate bid to keep her last living child by her side—not that he would ever have a similar problem, since he wasn't a woman, but he knew he would do all he could (which was likely far more than this little innocent would even dream of) to keep Gregory if someone dared try to take him. Perhaps because she intrigued him, with the contraction in her character between her naïveté, her intelligence, and the hint of shrewdness he'd sighted in her clear eyes. Perhaps because she'd smiled at him so earnestly earlier, telling him silently that which he heard from so few: _I like you_. Perhaps because he wanted to see that smile again.

_Or perhaps_, he added cynically inside his head, _because it's been more than a year since you last had a woman, and the suppressed lust has addled your brain_. _Why else would you be getting all soft and stupid about the way a comely woman looked at you?_

In all honesty, however, Cromwell admitted it was likely a combination of all these things driving his impulse to offer an explanation and see if there wasn't something subtle he might do for her in reparations for treating her so poorly.

His quicksilver mind immediately leapt on that idea. It would be a good idea, wouldn't it, to try and assuage the resentment Lady Tyrell was surely nursing? To try and send her away with more charitable sentiments for him, so that if and when she did find herself facing the inquisitors, she would be more inclined to protect him than damn him? Besides, she would talk to her brother eventually, wouldn't she? And with her dismal skills at deception, Benedict would instantly know something had happened, and he'd be the one complaining to Wolsey. Better nip that all in the bud right now.

It was self-deceptive and reeked of rationalisation, but Thomas ignored that with aplomb. He'd manage, wouldn't he? Lady Tyrell was a nobody. Provided she didn't shoot her mouth off to the wrong people, what harm could a nobody do to him?

He stood, then, and came around the desk to offer her a hand. "Come, let us dine. We can discuss things further as we eat," he offered soothingly, as though she was a skittish horse.

Lady Tyrell eyed him warily for a moment, but then with a deep breath (as though she were going to throw herself off a cliff instead of touch him) accepted his hand and let him lead her out of his study and into the private dining room. Her hand was cold and still trembled a little, and she was suspiciously biddable and entirely silent as she took a seat at what would be his left side, folding her hands in her lap and staring modestly down at the table. She didn't trust him yet, Thomas surmised as he went to inform the servants that he and his guest were ready to dine. Well, perhaps he'd be able to remedy that, at least a little.

Guessing that the surest way to bring her back out of her silence was her son, Thomas sat in the chair at the head of the table, and inquired, "How old is your son, Lady Tyrell?"

"Arthur is four, Master Cromwell," she replied quietly, still staring down at her lap.

He nodded, though she wouldn't see the gesture, and sat back in his chair. "A good age—growing out of babyhood, but still young enough to be dandled on your knee. Gregory, my son, loved to sit on my lap and pretend to read papers with me at that age," he recalled, letting the fond smile steal across his face. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see Lady Tyrell peering at him through her lashes; he was taming her, slowly. "My late wife always complained about the ink that got on his hands," he added.

Lady Tyrell opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it abruptly and looked back down. Still frightened, then, Thomas deduced, but curious as well. He kept talking idly of his son as the servants began to bring the food, placing it on the table in front of them. "Gregory still gets ink on his hands, of course, although now it's more in the course of his studies than because he's fascinated by my quill and desires heartily to chew upon it. He's now at Cambridge, studying with his tutors, though he'll be coming home for Christmas within the month. Probably eat us all out of house and home, too, and meanwhile need new shoes and shirts because he's outgrown all of his," he remarked with a rueful smile as he moved to serve the brawn and boiled beef. "Poor lad. He's been growing like a weed of late."

"How old is he, your son?" Lady Tyrell asked softly—so softly that, had he not been listening intently for any spoken word from her, he might have missed it altogether.

Thomas didn't miss a beat, but kept on as though nothing was amiss, pouring Lady Tyrell a goblet of Rhenish wine and smiling at her. Inwardly, however, he was triumphant and smug; he'd chosen the right lever, and vaulted the woman out of her silence. "Fourteen, almost fifteen," he replied proudly, tucking into the meal while it was still hot. The lady did the same, and silence fell between them once more.

As they ate, Thomas kept an eye on her reactions, and he read her pleasure in the food off her face. "Is the meat to your liking?" he inquired as though he hadn't, aiming to draw more discourse out of her.

"Yes, thank you," she returned quietly, with a timid smile.

He wondered if he'd frightened the pluck right out of her—there was little hint of the spitfire from before in this mousey, quiet creature with her downcast eyes. Where was the boldness? Was it a mask she donned and discarded as needed? Was the lady facile with such pretences, when all other signs indicated an inability to deceive at all? Or had he terrified her so badly that her bravery had quite fled? And was her bravery so feeble that such a shock could destroy it? Thomas found he was quite confused by Lady Tyrell's changeable nature. Who was she, truly—the earnest, demanding woman vowing to fight all comers for her son, or the timorous, shy, shaking girl refusing to meet his gaze?

Falling back to conversing about their children, he deliberately injected a warm, amiable tone to his voice, hoping to set her more at ease. "I think Richard will be happy to have Gregory home as well, though you wouldn't know it to see them together. They scrap like puppies. Richard usually gets the best of those contests—he's a pugnacious one... takes after his father," Thomas said with a wry twist of his mouth, remembering his feisty, Welsh brother-in-law. "Gregory's a little more like me, preferring to keep to his books and his hawks and less inclined to jousting and brawling."

A glimmer of Lady Tyrell's previous spark showed itself then, as she cast him a sideways glance rife with dubious scepticism. He could practically hear her thoughts: _disinclined to brawling?_ _That doesn't sound like you at all._

"Fair enough," he allowed with a small grin, wondering how it was she knew that. A lucky guess? London gossip? Or was she a shrewder judge of character than he'd previously supposed?

As he watched her turn to him, wide-eyed and shocked, he wasn't sure what conclusion to draw. "I didn't say anything," Lady Tyrell protested innocently.

"You have a very eloquent face," Thomas informed her, popping an olive into his mouth with a lopsided grin.

That made her blush, and duck her head. "Fair enough," she echoed, and through her hair he could just see the way her lips curled in an ironic smile.

And that seemed to be that. Though she still eyed him with a measure of wariness and bit back many words, Thomas seemed to have succeeded in allaying her fears—which was demonstrated by an eventual return of at least a little of her courage.

They'd been getting on quite well, their conversation (although "conversation" was a bit of a misnomer; Cromwell, being in possession of more experience and more information, was doing most of the talking) ranging from William Tyndale's current whereabouts, the political landscape of Germany and Martin Luther's affect thereon, Thomas Wyatt's poetry, and Thomas More (introduced as a topic by Thomas Cromwell in a bid to get Lady Tyrell to actually contribute to the discourse between them), with whom Lady Tyrell was acquainted, and frankly confessed to fearing.

"I can't say I blame you," Thomas replied, still unsure if he admired her gumption or despaired of her foolhardiness for maintaining a friendship with More's household with her religious beliefs being what they were. "One wrong word in that house, and you'll get locked in the cellars. My advice, madam, for whatever it might be worth: either distance yourself from that family, or learn to guard your tongue. No more raving like a strumpet in a tantrum," he warned with a smile to take away the sting of the chastisement, especially since it was coming from a man wholly unconnected to her who had made her cry not two hours before.

He only offered such advice in the first place because he was coming to like Lady Tyrell, with all her transparent honesty and her studied quietude and her lurking wit which surfaced when she forgot to be afraid of him. He liked her, and didn't want to see her immolated at Smithfield. But unless someone took her in hand and taught her to mind both the words that passed her lips and the expressions that crossed her face, that was exactly where she was going to end up. And he, Thomas Cromwell, was as good a man as any.

At least, for the moment.

A deep blush suffused Lady Tyrell's cheeks, and she ducked her head in embarrassment. "I don't usually... I'm not usually so feckless," she mumbled sheepishly.

He didn't bother hiding the sceptical expression on his face.

"I'm not," she insisted, giving him a look that would be a petulant pout on a younger woman. "You weren't... I wasn't... it was all very different. You weren't at all like what I was expecting," she admitted, sounding slightly wistful and a little sad.

"What were you expecting me to be?" Thomas wondered, curious despite himself. How did the average person, away from court, see him? What picture had this woman formed of him, that she had acted (she claimed) so out of character?

"Kinder. Warmer. More... helpful," Lady Tyrell admitted honestly, after a moment of thought. "I heard you'd lost your wife and your daughters and your sisters, the way I'd lost mine... I though, he'll help me keep my son, because he understands. He's just like me. I expected... I expected that we'd become friends, because we're the same." She tried to smile self-deprecatingly, but her poor attempt couldn't hide her sadness or her regret, and Thomas noticed her eyes were suspiciously bright before she ducked her head and let her hair fall to shield her face.

_Sweet little innocent, we are nothing alike_, he thought silently. He couldn't ever imagine being so unabashedly open, so baldly honest, so unashamedly unguarded around someone he barely knew—or even around someone he did know. She was right about the loss, though; that, he did understand—the desperate drive to hold tight to what was left in the aftermath of the summer plagues. He now understood her regret as well. It seemed that Lady Tyrell had been offering him candid, disinterested, earnest friendship after all, and he'd gone and ruined it.

"Why won't you help me?" she asked quietly, staring at the candles on the table instead of at him. "I... you owe me nothing, but I thought... Wolsey said you would—he said you'd have no compunctions about helping me, and now you say you will not, even though we are both reformers and... I just... you owe me no explanations, of course, but I'd like to know why..."

By the last, her voice had diminished to a mere whisper, and Thomas had to strain his ears to hear. He was slightly encouraged by her courage in bringing the issue back up and hoped his answer now would be more to her liking. Perhaps he hadn't totally obliterated any hope of friendship between them—he had a feeling Lady Tyrell would be, if not a useful friend, a true and loyal one. And those were much, much rarer and far more valuable, especially in the world he now inhabited.

He bent his head and gestured for her to lean in. Though he knew his servants were discreet and respectful enough not to eavesdrop, he didn't want to take any chances, either—not with this information. "I cannot make an enemy of the Boleyn family, because they are reformers, like us," he murmured. "I am waiting for an opportunity to place a certain book into Lady Anne's hands and further advance our cause, but that opportunity will never arise if I set myself against them."

"So she is a reformer!" Lady Tyrell breathed.

"Do you understand now why I cannot help you?" Thomas pressed. Judging from the despondent look creeping over her face, she did, even before she nodded. But that was not his final word—not anymore. Now he could take that despair from her, adding slowly and deliberately, "At least, not obviously. Not openly."

His impression of her intelligence was elevated again when she shot him a surprised, tentatively hopeful look, indicating that she was picking up on his hints. It gave him hope that the course of action he'd just committed to was the right one, and that she had the mind and the mettle to keep secret his assistance. "Master Cromwell?" she asked softly, eyeing him warily, like a doe about to flee.

There was one thing he had to know before committing himself fully. "I mean no disrespect, madam, but is your lack of discretion a constant trait?" he inquired carefully.

That made her give him an exasperated, slightly offended look. "I confess to being a bit of a gossip and I've been told more than once that I can't lie to save my life, but I'm not a complete fool, Master Cromwell," Lady Tyrell replied stiffly. "I can and do keep the important secrets, and I always have done."

"You mistake me, Lady Tyrell. Peace, I pray you—I intended no offense," Thomas soothed. "I ask not to insult you, but merely because if and when I help you, very few people can know of my involvement," he warned.

The lady winced a little, and looked down. "That may be easier said than done," she admitted. "If someone asks me what you said—and people will ask me—they'll know at once if I'm lying."

"If your brother knows, it matters little," Thomas assured her. In fact, it would likely be a good thing for Benedict Gage—and therefore Wolsey—to be aware that he was helping her, therefore fulfilling his obligations to his patron, the Cardinal (because no matter how powerful the Boleyns were and were becoming, he didn't want Wolsey as an enemy either, and he did owe the man a fairly substantial debt for his current prosperity). But it should not, could not, go much further than that, lest the Boleyns hear of it.

"Ben's not the only one who'll be asking," Lady Tyrell told him, the very faintest hint of _you idiot_ in her voice. Thomas was heartened by this show of spirit; he couldn't have crushed all her courage if she was using that tone with him. "Agnes—Lady Sedley, with whom I'm staying—she'll ask, and so will my sister-in-law, who accompanied me to London, and possibly Agnes' husband and certainly Meg—Margaret More—and possibly her father and even my son will be curious."

Thomas stifled a sigh, and reminded himself it wasn't Lady Tyrell's fault that she was overrun with family and friends who cared about her and her life and likely knew for a fact that she was quite possibly the worst liar in Christendom. "You can't simply say you don't wish to speak about it, and allow them to draw their own conclusions?" he inquired.

"Of course not," she replied, and the _you idiot_ in her tones was much clearer. "That is, I could say I don't want to talk about it, and they'll let it lie for a day or so... maybe a few hours, in Agnes' case... but after that... after that I had better have something else to tell them or distract them with because they'll want to know why I'm not in tears over your rejection." Thomas squinted at her in bemusement, and her cheeks flushed pink again. "I was very... I pinned many of my hopes on you, and wasn't discreet about letting people know," she admitted shyly.

"I can only hope to be worthy of your faith, but I cannot be known to openly assist you," Thomas reminded her sternly.

"I know," Lady Tyrell murmured. "I know. I'll do my best, but... well, I'm not a good liar."

That was an understatement _par excellence_. "If we are aiming for the most complete truth..." Thomas sighed, rolling his eyes a little before intoning dramatically, "Lady Tyrell, I cannot help you with this case." Lady Tyrell's shoulders shook with silent laughter, and her dark eyes danced at him. "There," he said, putting off the playacting, "now you can inform your friends that I have stated plainly that I am unable to assist you. Now, we must contrive another reason to meet," he went on thoughtfully. Lady Tyrell tilted her head in a wordless inquiry, and he elaborated, "Can you think of another reason to visit the household, or correspond with me? Something you could offer as a reply to your questioners, in lieu of admitting that I am dispensing legal counsel?" He imagined that would be the best way to keep the secret of his involvement: giving Lady Tyrell something else—something true—to use as a cover.

A smile a shade to sweet to be sly slid across Lady Tyrell's face. "Something such as... I have sought your advice on both my finances, and on finding good cloth to refurbish my wardrobe?" she asked.

Her giddy eagerness—and her cleverness, for these were both valid reasons for her to seek his counsel—drew an answering smile from her companion. _There may be hope for you yet, Lady Tyrell_, Thomas thought amusedly. "That would serve most admirably," was all he said aloud, letting his approval warm his voice.

"And I do actually need to ask you about both these things, so it's not even a lie," she added cheerfully.

They set a date for their next meeting several days hence. "And perhaps you might consider a slightly more subtle conveyance than your carriage, since we are trying not to draw attention to our association," Thomas advised delicately, trying to tread the line between explaining things Lady Tyrell, being as honest as she was, might not understand, and patronising (and therefore insulting) her.

"I usually walk when I'm in London," Lady Tyrell offered. "Though not as much after dark, which is why I took the carriage tonight."

"I can send some torchbearers back to Whitefriars with you next week, should you walk thence from Shoreditch," Thomas promised.

"My thanks, Master Cromwell," Lady Tyrell smiled. Her smile was still open and kindly, but not as unrestrained and warm as it had been earlier in the evening. Nor was the message unaltered; he read _I'm still wary of you_ from her face instead of _I like you_.

He regretted the loss of that message, the loss of her unreserved amity towards him, and regretted that he had been the one to destroy it, that his actions had given her smile that edge of fear. He wished he could put that sweet, unguarded beam back on her face, wished she felt safe enough to laugh audibly in his presence.

As he escorted her out to the yard where her carriage was waiting, Thomas thought of a way to mend things as best he could. He slowed their progress with a hand on the lady's sleeve, making her pause and look up at him curiously—and yes, with a touch of anxiety as well. "Master Cromwell?"

"Lady Tyrell, I... wish to apologise for my behaviour earlier in the evening," he said haltingly. It had been a rather long time since he'd needed to apologise to anyone—in fact, Liz was probably the last recipient—and he was out of practise. But he was not so prideful that he did not know the words needed to be said, or find himself unable to say them. "It was unkind and unwarranted, and I am heartily sorry for distressing you."

Lady Tyrell fixed her dark eyes on his face for a long moment, weighing his truthfulness. Thomas didn't know what she was hoping to find—he was a much more practised dissembler, and only allowed people to see on his face what he wished to display—but whatever she read from him apparently satisfied her. "Thank you," she whispered. "For what it's worth, you have my forgiveness, and my gratitude for your assistance."

"Then I am grateful as well," he replied. "Good evening to you, Lady Tyrell."

She smiled at him, then, before climbing into her carriage. "Clara," was her response.

Thomas watched her conveyance rattle out of his yard with an echoing smile once more gracing his face. Despite the inauspicious beginning to the evening, things had turned out well. He was now in a position to both satisfy Wolsey's request in assisting the lady and keep himself from being known as an enemy to the Boleyns. He'd managed to salvage the possibility of a friendship with Lady Tyrell, and hopefully taught her a valuable lesson about minding her tongue and guarding her religious views with more care, which she didn't seem to hold against him. Not if her last words and final smile were any judge.

_Clara_, she'd said. He knew it was her first name, and she was apparently giving him permission to use it, implying budding friendship at the very least. And her smile had been more eloquent yet: _I still like you_.

"Good night, Master Cromwell?" Ralph inquired when Thomas encountered the young man on his way back inside.

"Not bad, Ralph," he replied lightly.

"So, we'll be seeing more of Lady Tyrell, sir?" Ralph asked, the even, studied tones of his voice not hiding the amusement underneath.

Thomas gave his chief clerk a dry look. "Let her in with a minimum of fuss and fanfare. We're trying to keep this association quiet," was all he said.

Whether or not they would succeed in actually doing so—keeping it quiet—was anyone's guess. Either way, Thomas had a gut feeling that he, and his household, would be getting very familiar with Lady Clara Tyrell. And he couldn't quite bring himself to mind.

* * *

**A/N part deux:** The problem with Cromwell is that he doesn't say much, but you just know there's a ton of stuff going on under the surface. It makes it kind of hard to write him without a crap-ton of introspection. I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter, truthfully. It was one I know was greatly anticipated, and one I looked forward to writing... but I'm not sure if there's too much telling and not enough showing. Let me know what you think.

_Historical notes:_ Ralph Sadler (called Rafe Sadler in _Wolf Hall_) actually was a member of Thomas Cromwell's household, and rose to eventually become Secretary of State under Henry VIII. He also lived through the reigns of Edward VI and Mary I, and was associated with Lord Burghley (William Cecil, Elizabeth I's head honcho). He spent a lot of time dealing with Scotland, and was even on the council which condemned Mary, Queen of Scots to death. And he started out in Austin Friars. Funky, eh?

Anyway, hope you all enjoyed the chapter. Please review, if you did!


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Moving onwards. This is a kind of slow chapter, building up to an undisclosed event you'll find out about later, but at least it's here, right? And long? (I was actually a bit surprised at how long this ran.)

Also, the 7th was my 25th birthday, a date shared with the late Sir Thomas More (who would be 533, if he wasn't dead). I had some good cake and got some nice presents, including some books on Tudor England... and an iPad! Yeah, some of this got written on the bus en route to work on my new iPad. I can do lots of things on the bus, now; it's lovely. So take that, two hour commute!

* * *

**Chapter 5:**

_16 November, 1528_

Clara thanked God for many things as she arrived back at Lord Sedley's house after meeting with Thomas Cromwell, but mostly she thanked Him for the fact that there was no one waiting up for her, and that she therefore could go straight to bed without talking to anyone. She felt intensely discombobulated and didn't feel up to discourse with anyone, not even her sister or her best friend. After checking on Arthur, who was sleeping peacefully, she donned her nightdress and went straight to bed...

...where she lay awake, staring into the darkness. Her mind was whirling entirely too fast, and sleep eluded her as she went back over the occurrences of the evening.

Cromwell hadn't been a thing like she'd expected him to be. She'd been expecting someone more handsome and more helpful and more open and more chivalrous and more... _more like a fairytale prince, you mean_, she thought sourly, rolling her eyes at the dark room. _You were a fool, Clara, and were soundly repaid for your idiocy_.

She shivered silently under the quilt, remembering how unforgivably stupid she'd been. Had Cromwell been anyone else, she would even now be occupying some dark, damp, chilly prison waiting to be tied to a stake and immolated. She remembered what Cromwell had said to her, spelling out what she believed was her certain doom in that low, resonant voice of his: _You're lying, Lady Tyrell. I think you are no good Catholic at all_. Clara thanked God the man was a reformer, like her, and would not turn her over to the church, but that was more luck or providence than anything else. She was going to have to be much, much more careful in the future—especially since she now had another secret to keep.

Clara rolled over onto her side and sighed gustily. That had been something else she hadn't expected—that Cromwell would actually refuse her. She understood now, of course, that he couldn't set himself against the Boleyns if he was hoping to ally with Lady Anne for the cause of the reformed religion. But a few hours ago, all she knew was that the man Wolsey said would help her was stating that he was too afraid of the Boleyns to do so. And she was all set to hate him for the rest of her life—however short it would be, considering shortly after she'd made that resolution she'd nearly gotten herself killed with her loose tongue—when he revealed that he read the same books as she did. He'd been quite kind after that, which was a complete contrast to his coldness earlier. And he did apologise, and he said was going to help her, so long as she could keep it secret. So she didn't hate him anymore. She only hoped she could do as he asked, and ensure that no word of his assistance reached Boleyn ears.

But if they were truly grown so powerful now, what hope did she have of winning Arthur away from their client?

Aggravated, Clara flopped over onto her other side. She had Thomas More on her side, and Thomas Cromwell at her back; she had her mind and her courage and the love of her family and friends. She'd do her best and pray for guidance, but beyond that there was nothing else she could do. _So don't borrow trouble, Clara_.

She closed her eyes and breathed slowly, trying to slip down into sleep. But her mind was still spinning like a water-wheel, and every time she lost control of her brain she could still see Cromwell's face behind her eyes. The annoyed, distant set of his squarely-featured face when he said he wouldn't help her; the stony, impassive expression as he accused her of being no good Catholic, his eyes like chips of ice; the crooked smile when he told her she had an expressive face, which changed his homely features into something, if not traditionally handsome, strangely compelling; the discomfort on his countenance when he apologised for making her cry, silently letting her know that she was privileged indeed to merit an apology at all. So many facets to the same man—who was Thomas Cromwell, really? And why in God's name did her mind keep circling around to him, with the occasional stop at Thomas More (as she wondered what the other man would think of her and her new ally, and frightened herself with visions of being, as Cromwell warned, locked up in his cellar)? What would it take to get these Thomases out of her head?

Clara rolled onto her stomach, buried her face in her pillow, and screamed at the top of her lungs.

Once she was finished shrieking, she rolled back onto her back, no closer to sleep now than she was when she lay down. She fought her way free of the bedclothes, which were hopelessly tangled, and paced around the room a few times, trying to burn off her aggravation. Her feet got too cold to keep that up for very long, however, and she straightened the quilt and climbed back into bed, shivering this time from the chill. The sheets had cooled during her absence, and Clara reached out towards the empty side of the bed, missing Robin so badly she ached. If her husband were here, not only would the bed be warm, but he'd know how to calm her down enough to sleep... actually, if Robin was alive, she wouldn't be in this predicament at all.

She grabbed the spare pillow and embraced it in lieu of her husband, closing her eyes and calling Robert to mind, using his image to chase away the Thomases who tormented her. Clara thought of Robin's clear blue eyes, his scent of grass and musk and ambergris, the way his face creased when he smiled at her, the Leicestershire lilt in his tenor voice, his strong but gentle hands and the way they felt on her skin, the softness in his face when he cradled Constance in his arms or swung Arthur up into the air, the way his laughter tripped up and down and never failed to warm her heart, how he'd always get that soft look in his eyes when he saw her, and how his voice was always tender as he spoke to her. _Ah, my Clarissima! My dear wife, how do you do? What have you read today?_

Almost without being aware of it, tears began to pool in Clara's closed eyes, and escaped her lashes to trail down onto her pillow. She curled around the pillow in her arms and wept silently for her dead husband until she finally fell asleep. There was little respite for her there, however. She dreamed, and the Thomases returned to dog her steps once more.

In one dream, Thomas More and a mass of faceless bishops were burning her with a fire kindled from her books, and she wanted to scream for them to stop, but she couldn't make herself speak—no matter how she tried, no sound would pass her lips. In another, Thomas Cromwell was wrapping her up in a bolt of pink damask before he carried her into a garden and laid her under an oak tree and covered her with flowers, laying a rose over her mouth. She dreamed that she was in a room at Ardley, and More was tying her left arm to a bookshelf with her stockings while at the same time Cromwell was tying her right arm to the bedpost with her stays; meanwhile, Robin stood in the corner, staring sadly at her. She tried to get to him, but the two Thomases had tied her tightly and she could not escape her binds. She kept pulling and pulling, but to no ado. She dreamed that Arthur was in her arms and she was fleeing through a forest, though she knew not from whom she fled or whence, only that she couldn't stop or she'd lose her son. She dreamed she stood in a maze, and she knew Arthur was in there somewhere, but she didn't know how to get to him. Cromwell held her back against his chest and whispered into her ear the way through the maze, but she could not understand the words he said to her, nor escape his grasp. There were other dreams as well—spider dreams, which brought her out of slumber but which skittered away when she tried to remember them.

When dawn broke over the horizon and Clara heard the servants start to move around, she groaned and pulled a pillow over her head. She hadn't gotten more than a few hours of sleep. She tried to ignore the noises of the house coming to life, tried to sink back into her dreams, disturbing though they might be, in a search for more rest.

She didn't succeed, of course; Clara only managed a light doze, keeping the pillow over her head in an effort to keep out the day. Eventually she clamped it over her face and screamed into the cushion again, letting it muffle her frustration and exasperation, before putting it off with a groan. She cringed at the weak sunlight streaming through the window, and snarled wordlessly as she heaved herself out of bed. This was going to be a very, very bad day.

Her maid came and dressed her shortly thereafter, and once attired—in black, again—Clara went downstairs to breakfast, where she was immediately accosted by Marion and Agnes... who took one look at her pale, haggard, scowling face and drew back.

"Well, I was going to ask how things went with Cromwell last night, but if your face is any judge..." Agnes said, trailing off.

"Cromwell said he's not going to help me," Clara replied shortly, and crossed her arms across her chest, glaring down at the floor. "Not with Arthur's case. He told me he's not going to help—he doesn't want to make an enemy of the Boleyn family, so he said he can't help."

"Oh, sweetheart," Marion crooned, moving to take Clara into her arms. "I'm sorry," she murmured, rubbing Clara's back soothingly.

Clara sighed, and leaned into Marion's embrace, tucking her head into the crook of Marion's neck and letting her sister-in-law comfort her, using it as a pretence to hide her face, which was surely a picture. Between her restless night and the knowledge she was sort of lying to her closest friends, she'd wager Agnes and Marion would be able to tell that something was awry with one look at her expression. But she'd promised Cromwell to keep secret his assistance, and she would not willingly fail.

"Dear Clara, I'm so sorry to hear that," Agnes agreed, coming to lay a hand on Clara's shoulder.

Clara basked in their affection for a moment, feeling it like a cool cloth on her frazzled nerves. Then she sighed and drew away, rubbing her eyes tiredly. "Well, I've still got Sir Thomas More, and Cromwell did agree to help me with my finances and your crusade to refurbish my wardrobe," she added with a tired grin. "So that's something."

Marion was still watching her closely, though, and Clara fought to keep her face from giving herself away. "Are you certain you're all right, Clara?" she asked tenderly, reaching out to cradle the smaller woman in the crook of her arm.

"I'll be fine, Marion," she replied, resting her head on her sister-in-law's shoulder for a moment. "I just don't want to talk about it."

"All right, dear one," Marion murmured, squeezing once before releasing her.

Now, she could only hope that her friends could hold off their curiosity until she felt better equipped to deal with it, and the evasions that would be required. Even though she wasn't technically lying to her friends—Cromwell had said, foreseeing this very circumstance, that he wasn't going to help her, even though he actually was—it still felt like it, and it made her uncomfortable. But there was nothing for it; she'd been sworn to secrecy, and she was honour-bound to keep it so.

Clara avoided people as best she could, that day. She spent some time with Arthur and little Henry Sedley in the nursery, watching them play and telling them stories. Truly, what she wanted to do was just hold her son on her lap, but Arthur was too fidgety to allow it for very long, and eventually she released him and left him to his games. She also tried to settle down with Thomas More's law books and study, but her mind was fatigued and she couldn't make herself concentrate, or even understand what it was she was reading. Eventually, she wandered out into Agnes' garden—which, given that the day had turned grey, chilly, and misty, was deserted—and sat on a stone bench under the bare boughs of a tree, staring blankly around at the fading greenery.

Which was where Benedict found her that afternoon.

"You're going to catch your death of cold out here, Clare."

Clara gasped and whirled around, nearly falling off the bench she was huddled on. She relaxed instantly once she saw it was Benedict, but scowled at him nonetheless.

Ben, on the other hand, was grinning widely. "You must be out of sorts—that's the first time I've been able to sneak up on you since... since... well, since a very long time," he said, chuckling. Then he grew serious and sat down. "Agnes told me. I'm sorry, Clara—I'll go complain to Wolsey tomorrow, if you want me to."

"You don't need to," Clara replied. Cromwell said she could tell her brother, after all. "Keep this secret, all right?"

"Keep what secret?" Ben asked, confused.

"Cromwell is helping me," Clara murmured. "We're just saying he's not because he doesn't want to make an enemy of the Boleyns."

Benedict blinked a few times. "Oh," was all he said. He mulled over the idea for a few moments more, then said, "Oh," again. "That's not a bad idea, actually. Doesn't say much for Cromwell's courage, mind you, or his honour. Then again, he's just a blacksmith's son—probably doesn't have much of either," he added dismissively.

"Ben," Clara chided, unwilling to hear her brother talk scornfully of Cromwell. Base-born or not, he was still putting himself out to help her. He was also a fellow reformer, and her... friend? Perhaps? "That's unkind."

"I know," Ben agreed easily. "Court's not a kind place, though. Anyway, this explains why you're not in tears. Agnes expected that I'd find you out here crying." He paused, and took in the sullen greyness of the garden and the November weather. "Why are you out here, anyway, if you're not..."

"Weeping copious tears?" Clara supplied dryly.

Ben grinned sheepishly. "Well, yes. I thought... you're out, sitting in the cold, avoiding your friends—what was I supposed to think?"

"I'm just a little out of sorts," Clara demurred, unsure of what else to call it. "I didn't sleep well last night. I miss Robin. And I'm worried about this whole enterprise," she confessed softly, giving voice to her deepest fears. "If the Boleyns are grown so great, what hope do I have in winning the case against one of their family?"

Benedict said nothing—there was really nothing to say. He merely placed an arm around Clara's shoulders, pulling her into an embrace. They sat for a time in the misty, grey afternoon until Ben started to shiver. "It's freezing out here, Clare. Let's go back inside," he said, pulling her up with him when he stood.

Clara balked a little, but then gave in and let Ben tow her back inside. Before they stepped through the door, she tugged her brother's arm and whispered, "Remember, we mustn't let anyone know that Cromwell is helping me. He asked me to keep it secret, and I do not wish to break my word."

"I won't say anything if you don't," Ben replied softly. He gave her a sideways look. "I'm not the one who can't lie."

"It's not lying, I'm just not telling them everything," Clara insisted, both to Benedict and herself.

Perhaps if she said it enough times, she'd believe it.

Marion waylaid them as they came inside, fussing over Clara's pallor and her slightly-damp clothing. She pointedly ignored Benedict, and immediately took Clara's arm and dragged her upstairs to change. Clara cast a look back at Ben, who was staring bemusedly after them.

"Clare, I know she's your sister-in-law, but that woman hates me," her brother remarked, knowing Clara's sharp ears would pick up the comment.

She puzzled silently over it as Marion helped her into a dry gown and wrapped her in a fur-trimmed cape. Of course she'd noticed the coldness with which Marion had treated her brother (and Agnes, until the discussion about Clara's hypothetical gowns yesterday thawed a least a little of the ice between them), but tried not to think too hard about it, perhaps hoping that if she ignored it, it wouldn't affect her, or if she threw them together enough times they'd get along better. Marion was her sister-in-law, Benedict was her brother, Agnes was her best friend; she wanted them to be a family. It seemed that wasn't happening, though.

"Why don't you like my brother?" Clara inquired suddenly, before she and Marion left her bedchamber.

Marion started, and turned to look at her with surprised blue eyes. "I like your brother just fine," she replied, though the chill in her voice seemed to indicate otherwise. Then she turned to leave the room and return downstairs—a sure sign that she wanted to end the conversation, because usually she'd be seeking any excuse to remain upstairs.

"You didn't like Agnes very much either," Clara pressed, following after her. _In fact, you don't seem to like anyone in London but me_, she added silently, knowing that was unjust but feeling the sentiment anyway. She didn't know if it was discomfort at being so far from home or earnest dislike towards those Clara loved, but the warm affability with which she was used to seeing Marion address the people around them had vanished entirely since their arrival in the city.

Marion had paused in the corridor, and was staring uncomfortably at the floor, her arms wrapped around her torso. Clara went up to her and placed a hand on her arm, not wanting to hurt her sister-in-law, but unable to let Marion continue to treat her family so coldly. "I don't understand why you don't like my family when you've been so pleasant to me, Mari, and I won't press if you don't want to tell me. But please, can you not try to get along, for my sake?" she pleaded quietly. "I cannot fight the Boleyns for Arthur knowing that there is dissent in the family upon which I am counting for support. I need us all to be united. Please try? For me?"

"All right," Marion whispered shamefacedly. "I'm sorry, Clara."

"Just please, please try to get along," Clara repeated, patting Marion's arm to silently convey that there were no hard feelings before tugging her sister-in-law downstairs to join the company, where Marion made a concerted effort to be amiable to both Ben and Agnes, who were both being deliberately vivacious and witty in an effort to distract Clara from her low mood. For Clara's part, she was grateful for their efforts on her behalf.

They whiled away the afternoon in the hall around the fire; Marion sewed while occasionally interjecting a comment into Ben and Agnes' conversation, and Clara half-dozed on her brother's shoulder, listening to his and Agnes' flirtatious banter and to the noises of the house around them. But as the sun began to set, a new sound made her open her eyes and sit up.

"Are you expecting any other guests?" Clara inquired of Agnes, interrupting her remark to Ben while trying to force her sleep-starved and stress-addled brain into functioning normally.

"No, why?" Agnes inquired, looking rather addled herself.

Clara cocked her head and listened for another moment. "Because someone important just arrived. Wait, I think it's Lord Sedley," she said, hearing the servants hailing the return of their master.

An immediate frost overcame the animation on Agnes' lovely face, and her features twisted themselves into an expression of cool disdain. "Pray, excuse me," she said stiffly, rising from the chair and moving towards the door to go greet her husband.

Clara felt Ben stiffen beside her, and heard the almost sub-vocal growl emanating from his chest. She glanced curiously up at her brother, and saw an expression of bitter anger on his features before he composed himself and arranged his face into something more impassive. He couldn't hide the fury in his green eyes, however, and Clara, confused and not wanting to acknowledge the seed of knowledge that had just been planted in her head, turned her own eyes back to the door through which Agnes had exited.

The three of them, Benedict, Clara, and Marion, sat in silence as they waited for Agnes to return, while the two Gages strained their ears to hear what was passing between Agnes and her husband. It wasn't much to entertain—some extremely formal greetings on Agnes' part, some indifferent replies on Lord Sedley's, a distant inquiry on the health of their son, an equally distant reply and a remark that they had guests to see to, followed by footsteps.

Ben and Clara shared a look before standing, in unison. Marion, who had been frowning at them, quickly put down her sewing and rose as well, taking her cues from them. Thus, they were all standing when Hugh Keriell, Lord Sedley entered the hall, and were prepared to greet him with curtseys and bows, as was appropriate.

"Good evening, Lady Tyrell, Master Gage, Mistress Tyrell," Sedley said coolly, accepting their courtesies as his due and moving to sit at the head of the table, settling himself down as the king of his tiny domain. Agnes moved to take a chair at the opposite end of the table, where precedence demanded she sit, putting more distance between herself and her friends when before she'd been seated in their midst. "I have been remiss in my duties as a host, having not welcomed you to my home prior to today," Sedley went on, fixing his flat brown eyes, a few shades lighter than Clara's, on his guests. "But, as His Majesty has released me from my duties for several days, I intend to remedy this discourtesy. You arrived four days hence, I understand?"

"Five days, my Lord," Clara replied quietly, knowing it was her duty to answer. She was the ranking guest, after all. But she wished it was otherwise; the man made her uncomfortable. He was a strange mix of coldness and colourlessness that made her flesh crawl and shrink, from his pallid skin to his dull grey hair to his distant, chilly expressions. He seemed as flat as the slates on the ground outside in the garden, and reminded her a little of a dead fish, lying on a fishmonger's cart in the late afternoon. She couldn't imagine how Agnes, all vivacity and laughter and vibrant colour, could stand to be married to him, and silently thanked God that her father, for all his faults, had better taste in choosing his daughters' husbands. "We arrived Wednesday."

"And how was your journey? Not too taxing, I trust?" Sedley inquired, as if reading by rote a list of questions he felt a good host ought to ask.

"No, my Lord," Clara said, taking note of the looks being passed between Agnes and Benedict—looks to which Lord Sedley was entirely unaware.

Sedley's presence cast a pall on the rest of the evening, blighting the merriment which had previously sparkled through the hall. The conversation was dull and stilted as Lord Sedley rambled on about his horses (and their digestive health), his dogs (and their digestive health), the king and court (and their digestive health), and asking repetitive questions about everyone else (and their digestive health). Consequently, everyone (saving Lord Sedley himself) was deeply uncomfortable. During one of Lord Sedley's monologues, Clara cast an incredulous look at Agnes, whose cheeks were flushed pink. She looked for all the world as though she was wishing the ground would open up and swallow her—or her husband.

After the meal was over, they all lingered awkwardly around the table. Clara was unwilling to leave Ben alone with Agnes and her husband, uneasy about the idea for some reason she couldn't put a name to; Marion was unwilling to leave while Clara stayed; Agnes was unable to leave while her husband lingered; and Ben, for some perverse motive of his own, showed no signs of departing, though Clara kept scowling at him and kicking at his shins under the table. So they all remained, mired in the mud of uneasiness.

Finally, Agnes excused herself to check on little Henry, breaking the stalemate as she stood to leave. Ben and Lord Sedley stood with her, but only the latter followed her out. Clara could hear the words Sedley addressed to his wife: "Pray, madam, get rid of the guests as soon as can be. I wish to visit your bed tonight."

Sedley wasn't being very quiet about making that address, either, which meant Benedict was able to overhear as well. He snarled wordlessly, and clenched his fists as Agnes stiffly and coldly indicated her acquiescence. Clara pointedly did not notice either of these things. She didn't want to notice these things, because she was beginning to draw a conclusion she didn't want to know.

They managed to draw out the evening for another hour or so, with Ben pointedly ignoring the unsubtle hints Lord Sedley was dropping about departing. Only when Clara hissed, so softly as to be audible only to him, "Benedict, if this man throws me out of his house for your churlishness, I will never forgive you," did her brother finally stand and take his leave of the household. Once Ben clattered out the courtyard, casting one last look at the three women standing in the door, Clara and Marion immediately retired themselves, hurrying upstairs and sharing an uneasy look before closing the doors of their chambers. Once in bed, Clara pulled a pillow over her head and did her best to shut out the world. She didn't want to know what Agnes and her husband were doing right now (and prayed fervently that she wouldn't hear it, either), she didn't want to know what was wrong with Benedict, and she didn't want to know about Marion's odd antipathy to Clara's other friends. She just wanted everything to be over, to whatever end.

She slept better than she had the night before, slipping into a deep, dark oblivion in which there were no dreams and no awareness of the world around her, and woke as another dismal, grey day dawned. The servants were up and about already, and Clara got out of bed and readied herself for the day ahead—she was going to Chelsea today, to talk to Sir Thomas and to Meg.

Anything to get her out of this house.

"I don't suppose you'll bring me with you?" Marion asked wryly, when Clara stopped by her room to let her know of her plans.

"Do you really want to come?" Clara returned, arching her brows. "It won't be very interesting—just a lot of philosophical and legal talk."

"Anything to get me out of this house," Marion murmured, echoing Clara's earlier thoughts.

That made her grin, and with only a slight pang of guilt for abandoning Agnes to her husband's company, the two of them set off for Chelsea as the sun began to rise over the London roofs, wrapped in warm mantles and each with a satchel resting at their feet; Clara's contained books and papers, and Marion's contained her needlework. The tension which had been present in Marion since their arrival in London began to melt away as they rowed further up the river, and Clara wondered if her sister just didn't like the city, and that was the source of her peevish behaviour.

Clara suspected that their barge was sighted long before they moored at the dock, since Meg met them as they wandered up the lane to the house, and therefore had to have been warned by a servant—especially since her first words were, "You are come very early today, Clara."

"We... we were eager to be gone from Lord Sedley's house," Clara admitted honestly, giving Meg a wry look. "Speaking of which, Meg, this is my sister-in-law Marion. Marion, this is Mistress Margaret Roper, a dear friend."

The two ladies curtsied to each other, murmuring the appropriate pleasantries, before Meg turned her keen dark eyes back to Clara. "What on earth is the matter with Lord Sedley's house that you are so eager to be gone?" she wondered.

"It's got Lord Sedley in it," Clara replied dryly, making Marion snort with laughter and drew an appreciative smile from Meg for her wit. "Have you ever met him?"

"No," Meg admitted.

"If you had, you would understand," she said flatly, shuddering.

Meg frowned a little at that, and turned a quizzical look to Marion, who nodded solemnly in agreement with Clara's sentiments. "I almost wish to make his acquaintance, now," More's daughter commented.

"Don't," Clara and Marion chorused in unison.

That did make Meg laugh, and she gestured for them to proceed up the path. "Well, you are welcome, no matter how early you come," she promised. "I'll let Father know you are here—I'm sure he'll be able to see you quickly, since he is not to go to Whitehall today."

"I am glad of it—I am full of questions for Sir Thomas, and I know also that I must file my brief soon, with which I can certainly use his help," Clara replied as they passed through the gate to the house.

Meg showed them to the great hall and found them seats around the brazier with several other More children and Lady Alice, who seemed happy to see Lady Tyrell and to make the acquaintance of Mistress Marion. The two of them, Alice and Marion, soon settled in with their sewing and were conversing quite happily about wool versus flax versus silk. Meanwhile, Clara took a place at the table and spread out her books and papers next to Meg, who was stuck into a translation of her own.

They all worked in quiet harmony for nearly two hours, before Matthew—one of Thomas More's oldest servants, who had been serving the family for as long as Clara had known them—came into the hall and made his way to the table. "Lady Tyrell, the master will see you now," he said quietly.

With an apprehensive look at Meg, who returned the glance with a more quizzical expression, clearly not understanding how anyone could be afraid to approach her father, Clara collected her things and followed Matthew along the familiar path of Thomas More's study. The man himself was at his desk, writing something, though he put the quill down immediately once the servant announced his guest.

"Dear Clara, welcome," Thomas More said warmly as he stood to usher her into a chair, the same chair which she had occupied nearly a week ago. "How do you do today?"

"Very well, Sir Thomas, thank you," Clara replied with a faint smile. Sir Thomas' behaviour was in direct contrast to the way she'd been treated in the closet of another Thomas, not two days past. Certainly Thomas More was addressing her with more courtesy than Thomas Cromwell—he acknowledged her presence in his study at once, and ceased his writing to greet her, as opposed to the way Cromwell had ignored her; he smiled and treated her warmly, as opposed to the way Cromwell had watched her impassively and thereafter frightened her half to death.

And yet, despite this, despite the kindness and warmth with which he treated her, something inside her still shivered in the presence of Thomas More.

"How go your forays into the legal profession?" he inquired amusedly, as though he thought it entirely ludicrous that a woman—that she, in particular—was trying to act like a lawyer.

Clara was mildly offended by his tone—if Meg was bright enough to be a lawyer and a scholar and a credit to the female sex, why wasn't Clara?—but tried not to show it. "I must confess that I am rather confused and unsure of myself," she admitted, a little more unhappy about revealing this to More than she had been to Cromwell. Perhaps because she knew the latter would not look down on her for her inexperience and her ignorance, that he would not compare her to others and find her wanting. Perhaps because she had never sought Thomas Cromwell's approval (just his friendship), but desperately wanted Thomas More's. "I have made some notes, and I hope, Sir Thomas, that you might explain some of the questions I have..."

She dug her notes out of her folio and shuffled the parchment until she found the first of her questions, marked in the middle of the page next to a tiny sketch of a butterfly alighting onto a flower. The query was put to Sir Thomas, who answered it plainly and frankly and offered her a quill to write down his answers, gesturing for her to draw her chair closer and use his desk as needed.

As Clara shifted her papers to find the next notation upon which she needed clarifications, Sir Thomas held out a hand and whisked one of the sheets—the one upon which she'd doodled a little fantasy of a tower surrounded by a maze of hedges—away from her. "What is all this?" he inquired, sounding both amused and curious.

Clara went red. "Nothing," she squeaked, trying to snatch back the paper.

But Sir Thomas leaned back, keeping the leaf of parchment in his hands. "This is rather good," he remarked, sounding earnestly complimentary. He glanced up at her, then down at the rest of her papers, which were covered in similar doodles, then back up at her, and his dark eyes were twinkling with laughter. "Unable to stomach laws and procedures for long, Clara?" he inquired teasingly.

"Yes, Sir Thomas," she admitted, feeling the burn in her cheeks.

"May I see the others?" he asked politely, extending his hand.

There wasn't much else to do but hand the papers over, though Clara wished he wouldn't look. The drawings were mere doodles of a girlish mind—the made-up faces of pretty women and handsome men, simple sketches of her family and friends, fantastical landscapes, the occasional knight on horseback, a bird or two, random flowers and trees, and abstract patterns and designs, all of which flowed out from her quill when her mind drifted away into daydreams. There was even a sparse little sketch of Sir Thomas himself—which, given the expression on his face, he had just seen. He might be amused by her drawings, but they did nothing to change his impression of her as a silly little girl, worthy of his condescension and his assistance but not his respect, nor his friendship.

"It's a pity you weren't born a man, Clara," Sir Thomas remarked, after he finished perusing through her papers. "You could have been sent abroad to Italy to study under the masters."

"My father would never have permitted it, were I a man or not," Clara demurred. Knight's sons did not go off to Italy to be artists—not without getting disowned afterwards, anyway—and certainly not knight's daughters, though she regretted that it was such an impossibility. She would have liked to go to Italy, liked to have walked upon the stones which had felt the footsteps of Dante and Bocaccio and Pico della Mirandola and Lorenzo de Medici and Leonardo da Vinci and, most especially, Christine de Pizan. She would've liked to be a famous painter, and perhaps earn Thomas More's respect that way, since clearly he wasn't going to give it to her as things were.

She accepted her papers back from Sir Thomas and arranged them back into order, looking down and trying to hide the bitterness she was sure showed on her face. Would she never be good enough in his eyes? Inferior as a woman, and even as a woman inferior to his dearest daughter Meg. He had probably never wished that Meg was a man.

Once she felt more mistress of herself, Clara sought out the next question she had for Sir Thomas, and put it to him, moving the conversation away from her doodles and her apparently regrettable femininity and back to the issue foremost in her mind. This was the pattern which followed the next hour or so; he was very patient with her, thankfully, and was able to clarify a lot of the things which had confused her.

After her questions had been explained, and Clara had a better idea of what she was doing and what she was facing, they set to work on composing the brief which Clara would present to the judges at the Inns of Court and which would formally announce her intention to challenge the granting of her son's wardship to George Spencer. Clara did most of the writing, but Sir Thomas advised her upon phrasing and content—at least, until the noon hour, at which point they adjourned for dinner. Part of Clara was loath to stop, knowing that Sir Thomas' help was invaluable and now that they had stopped working on the case they likely wouldn't start again today, since More was a busy man; the rest of her, however, felt stuffed to the brim with information and exhausted by the same, and was very glad of the respite.

After they dined and the food was cleared away, Sir Thomas bid his family adieu and returned to his closet, leaving Clara behind with the women to work on her brief.

"How did it go, Clara?" Meg inquired, looking up from her translation—it was all in Greek, so Clara had no idea what it was.

"Well," she replied with a diffident shrug, unwilling to tell Meg about the tangle of emotions that her father inspired in her friend's breast and how she wished she could for one moment be regarded even half as well as Meg. "He laughed at my drawings."

"Because they're funny," Meg pointed out. "I always loved to get letters from you with little sketches all down the margins. And you draw so well, Clara—a pity you can't become a painter."

"That's what your father said—he said it was a shame I wasn't born a man. Not that it would've mattered. I can imagine what my father would've said if I was born Clement and announced my intentions to go to Italy or Paris or wherever and study under Leonardo," Clara said dryly. "They would've heard him shouting in Dover."

"And if you were mere Clara, and said the same?" Meg queried with an arched brow and a little grin.

Clara shuddered. "They would hear him shouting in Calais. No, I shall never be more than an amateur—I have not the opportunity to be more," she finished wistfully.

"I don't understand how you can be so facile with a quill and yet so utter a disaster with a needle," Meg commented. "I think some of your drawings—like that one you did of the tree and the roses—would be lovely if made into tapestry."

Knowing she wouldn't be able to stitch a tapestry even if her life depended on it, Clara just shrugged again and gestured with her quill to Marion, who was watching them from her seat before the brazier. "She does the sewing in our household. I make a hash of even the simplest stitching."

"That's because you have no desire to be better at it," Marion pointed out, overhearing her comment. "If you put your mind to it, I'm sure your sewing would improve."

Clara wrinkled her nose. There were hundreds of things she'd rather do then fumble about with a needle and thread. They went quietly back to work, until a turn of phrase reminded her of what she'd been thinking about the day before she met Cromwell—nothing new under the sun. "Meg," she began, setting down her quill, "you know the passage from Ecclesiastes, _nihil sub sole novum_? Do you think..."

And the two of them set down their quills and embarked on a philosophical conversation, admittedly dominated mostly by Meg, though Clara and even Lady Alice and Marion and Mistress Elizabeth More threw in their two pence. They all amused themselves thusly until the grey light began to take on a deeper gloom, at which point Clara decided she and Marion had imposed long enough on Sir Thomas and Lady Alice's hospitality (and left poor Agnes alone with her husband) for long enough, and announced her intentions to depart.

"Oh, will you not stay to dine with us?" Lady Alice entreated.

"We had better not," Clara demurred. She'd left Agnes alone all day as it was, and even if Lord Sedley was present, the food would be better there than it would be here. "Though I thank you most heartily for your hospitality, Lady Alice, and for Sir Thomas' counsel, we are Lord Sedley's guests, and mustn't neglect our duties to our host."

Sir Thomas came down to bid them farewell, after once again offering Clara the services of his barge to take them back to London. "I give you good evening, Clara," he said as he walked them towards the door. "And I wish you joy of Lord Sedley's company. Is he still fixated on everyone's digestion?" he added, leaning down and lowering his voice conspiratorially.

Clara grimaced.

That made Sir Thomas laugh, and he patted Clara's shoulder. "Well, you have my prayers," he told her teasingly. "Both for your legal work, and for your ability to endure your host."

"He is a handsome man," Marion commented stiffly as the barge cast off from the More's quay and began to row down the river. "Sir Thomas, I mean."

"Funny, too," Clara agreed, glancing back over her shoulder at the dock they'd just left. "Would that my father had been even half the man Thomas More is."

She wasn't looking to see the way Marion's shoulders relaxed at that declaration. "Why didn't we stay to dine with them?" she wondered softly when Clara turned back around.

"Because the food there is awful—even worse than Lord Sedley's company," Clara murmured in return. "And I can say that, having been afflicted with both."

That made her sister-in-law laugh. "I'll remind you that you said that, if we find ourselves answering more questions about the regularity of our bowel movements," Marion warned.

Clara winced.

They reached Lord Sedley's house as night began to fall in earnest, and were greeted with a fierce scowl from their hostess . Agnes glared at the both of them as she stomped towards them. "Some fine friends you are. Thank you so much for leaving me alone with that man all day," she hissed as Clara and Marion shucked their mantles.

"That man is your husband," Clara pointed out, refusing to shrink under Agnes' glower. "And I needed to confer with Thomas More about legal matters. We were composing my brief." That was only one reason, of course; Agnes didn't need to know she was right about the rest of it.

"A fine story," Agnes growled, using her index finger to prod Clara in the sternum. "For your cowardice, both of you are going to stay with me until we all retire—me, and Lord Sedley, because my husband refuses to leave me alone."

Both Clara and Marion grimaced. Marion looked to Clara, who sighed in resignation and followed her fuming friend back to the hall. _At least I have another visit with Master Cromwell to look forward to_, she thought to herself. _Though when visiting a lawyer who both ignored me and made me cry is the highlight of my week_, _things have gone very, very wrong_.

* * *

_19 November, 1528_

Clara slipped into the Austin Friars house without much notice on Thursday afternoon, having bid Marion and Agnes adieu earlier. There were several reasons for this inconspicuous entrance: for one, she was on foot this time. For another, she was dressed much more plainly, in the same sort of gown which had drawn so much scorn. And for yet another, she was swiftly waved in the gate by the gatekeepers before wafting noiselessly into the house, where she was greeted by a young man whom she recognised as Ralph Sadler.

"Good evening, Lady Tyrell," Master Sadler greeted, and Clara wondered about the cause of the amusement in his blue eyes.

"Good evening to you as well, Master Sadler," she replied.

"Let me take that," Sadler said, reaching out to relieve her of her satchel, which contained her folio and her household ledgers, before leading her upstairs. "Master Cromwell isn't back from court yet, but you're welcome to wait for him in his closet. He bids me tell you that his bookshelves are at your disposal."

That made her smile—she'd seen a few titles on Monday that she definitely wanted to get stuck into. "Thank you," she returned with a bright smile as Ralph opened the door to the closet and got her settled inside.

She immediately made a beeline for the bookshelf behind Cromwell's desk and whisked the first volume of Philippe de Commines' _Mémoires_ into her hands. She had wanted to lay her hands on this since she'd first heard about it, but Robin forbid her—he'd heard bad things about the content of the book, and refused to let her read it. Clara had been hard-pressed not to protest, but bit her tongue and waited, knowing that sooner or later a copy would come her way. And so it had—perhaps Cromwell would let her borrow this, since she was on a budget right now that forbade her to purchase her own copy?

Taking a seat in a different chair from the one she'd occupied on Monday, Clara opened the book, tilted it so the fire- and candlelight would best illuminate the print, and began to read.

_My lord archbishop of Vienne, you graciously requested that I should write an account for you about what I know of the acts of our master and benefactor, Louis XI (may God pardon him), a prince whom we both ought to remember. In order to comply I have done this as truthfully as my memory allows... _

_

* * *

_

Thomas Cromwell moved through his day without a mere hint that anything out of the ordinary was going to happen. He performed his duties efficiently, excellently, and impassively with the customary imperturbable expression on his face. Perhaps he worked a little more swiftly than usual, and was a little more curt dealing with those who approached him seeking preferment or favours, but there was no sign that there was a reason for this, let alone that the reason was dark-haired and pretty.

Inwardly, however, Cromwell was afflicted with a low-key excitement. Lady Tyrell was to join him at home tonight to go over her finances and do some surreptitious legal work, and he was looking forward to seeing her again. He had to admit, however, that he had no firm idea of what to expect. The warrior or the weakling, or some new configuration he had not yet seen? Would she be tearfully confessing that she had been unable to keep secret his assistance and now half of London knew he was helping her, or would she be giddy with the success of her first foray into deception? Would she still be quiet and a little nervous in his presence, or would she let loose that lurking wit and laugh freely? The uncertainty of his assumptions and expectations was a new feeling—not one he was used to at all—and was quite possibly why he was so eagerly anticipating the evening ahead (especially because he knew he was in no danger from Lady Tyrell, no matter how he was or wasn't surprised by her).

Finally, the day's business was over, and he was able to set out for Shoreditch—a little later than he'd hoped, admittedly, but Cromwell imagined Lady Tyrell would be happy enough to pass the time with his bookshelves. Which was just what Ralph told him as he entered the house at Austin Friars:

"Lady Tyrell's in the closet, master," his chief clerk announced.

"How long has she been waiting?" Cromwell inquired as he removed his chain.

"An hour or so," Ralph replied. "I've had Avery listening at the door and Thurston going up with wine every so often, just to keep an eye on her, but apparently she's just been reading."

"Good," Cromwell nodded. He'd had a feeling Lady Tyrell could be trusted in his privy closet, guessing she'd just read and that snooping about into his coffers and papers wouldn't even occur to the honest little widow. It was encouraging to know he was correct.

Of course, that morning he'd locked all his papers up and given the keys to Ralph, and he'd made sure she'd be watched if she arrived in the house before he did. No sense in tempting fate if he was wrong.

Cromwell carefully began to ascend the stairs, moving as quietly as he was able and nodding to Thomas Avery as he passed the youth sitting outside the door; Avery gave him a grin as he passed, and signalled silently that nothing was amiss. He wanted to have a moment to observe Lady Tyrell before she knew he was there; he wanted to witness her first reaction to his presence. This would give him an inkling of what facet of her personality he was dealing with, and hint at how the rest of the evening ought to proceed. But as he gently pushed the door to his study open, he discovered that Lady Tyrell was already standing behind the chair he presumed she'd been sitting in, one of her slender fingers holding her place in a book, and she was beaming at him. _I'm glad to see you_, was what her smile was saying to him today.

But how did she hear him coming?

"I apologise for my lateness, Lady Tyrell," he said, entering the room and casting a swift glance around. Everything was exactly as he'd left it, save for the book which had taken up residence in the lady's hands. If she'd gone snooping at all, somehow managing to escape Thurston and Avery's notice, she'd left no sign of it. "My duties at court delayed me."

"It's quite all right, Master Cromwell," she replied. "I had plenty to amuse myself while I waited."

He squinted at the title of the book, which Lady Tyrell helpfully held up for him once she saw that he was curious. It was Philippe de Commines—a rather odd choice for the lady. Was she interested in politics? Cromwell quickly thought about how he could subtly introduce the topic and inquire... then remembered who was he was with. "Are you interested in politics, Lady Tyrell?"

She shrugged a little. "I'm more interested in the people," she admitted honestly.

"Ah yes, you did say you were a bit of a gossip," Cromwell recalled, smirking a little. Lady Tyrell's cheeks went bright pink, and he fought the urge to laugh. Taking pity on her (if he kept humiliating her, she'd never want to speak to him again), he changed the subject. "How is your son?"

That made her sparkle. "Arthur is very well, thank you. My brother has promised to take him to see a bear-baiting on Saturday, and he is fit to burst with excitement," she replied brightly.

There was something wrong with the idea of Lady Tyrell—timid, quiet, sweet little Clara—at a bear-baiting; Thomas wasn't quite able to imagine it. Though perhaps she'd surprise him? She did seem to do that rather often. "Which pit do you mean to attend?"

"Ben's seeing to everything; I'm not sure where he's going... somewhere in Southwark, I think. But so long as he keeps my son safe, I don't much care. I never go to bear-baitings—they're far, far too loud," she explained, wrinkling her nose.

He wondered how keen her ears actually were. If a bear-baiting was too loud for her, if she could hear his approach in his own house when he was trying to be soundless, if she heard his nieces disparaging her clothing when they swore they were talking softly... if she could hear these things, just how much could she hear? Did it have any contribution to the uncanny silence when she moved? And how could he subtly extract the information from her?

Then Thomas remembered who he was with.

"Just how keen are your ears?" he asked bluntly.

Lady Tyrell grinned at him, and cocked her head to the side. "I can hear the young gentleman you have outside in the hall fidgeting a little... there's someone outside shouting in extremely impolite French... I believe your two nieces are downstairs reading something aloud, though I can't quite make out what... your kennels are that way," she added, pointing in the direction of the kennels, "because I can hear your dogs, and your stable is that way," she finished, pointing at what was actually his neighbour's stables.

Thomas stared at her for a moment. Was she in earnest? "If you'll humour me, Lady Tyrell?" he asked. At her nod, he requested, "Remain here, if you please. I'll go downstairs and say something, and then you repeat it back."

Lady Tyrell was regarding him with rather disbelieving amusement, practically quivering with suppressed laughter (did she not fully trust him, yet? Or did she never laugh aloud?), and he arched an eyebrow in a silent query. "We used to play this game as children," she clarified, laughter burbling under her voice. "But as you like it, Master Cromwell."

He sent Thomas Avery into the closet on his way out to ensure that Lady Tyrell wasn't somehow cheating, though he didn't think she would. Besides, there was no point in setting the lad to eavesdrop on the woman if she knew, and had always known, that he was there.

A funny sort of woman, Clara Tyrell—and who apparently found him rather funny, too. Descending the staircase, Thomas supposed he understood her amusement, too. If a person came to him this evening and told him to start kicking a cabbage around the streets of London, as he had been wont to do as a boy, he would certainly be amused and incredulous as well... if he didn't ignore them outright. Or hit them.

He'd done that as a boy, too.

Thomas stood in the middle of hall, aware of the distance between himself and his closet, and spoke in a normal tone. "Lady Tyrell, if you can hear me, I will be indescribably impressed," was all he could think of to say." Then he went back upstairs.

As he re-entered his privy closet, he noticed Lady Tyrell was grinning widely at him, her dark eyes twinkling. Thomas noted two disparate things: Thomas Avery looked very confused, and Clara Tyrell had very good teeth. "Are you impressed enough to lend me this book?" she asked pertly, patting the book cradled in the crook of her arm.

He was utterly astounded, and fought to keep his mouth from hanging open in shock. "Did you actually...?"

"'Lady Tyrell, if you can hear me, I will be indescribably impressed,'" she parroted back; she hit his intonations, accent, and inflection dead on as well. If her voice was deeper...

Thomas sat down heavily in the chair behind his desk. How was it possible for a human's ears to be so sensitive? Why, she could put some of his dogs to shame! (He paused a little at the thought, and made a mental note to never, ever, vocalise that comparison aloud.) Did her acute hearing have anything to do with the almost-preternatural silence of her movements, or her talent for mimicry? Did she have a talent for mimicry, or was her imitation of himself just whimsy or serendipity?

All of these thoughts coalesced into a single conclusion, blinding in its clarity, which nearly stole his breath: _This woman could be the most perfect spy in Christendom_.

Then his rational mind caught up to him, and Thomas scoffed inwardly. _Clara Tyrell, a spy? When every thought and feeling that crosses her mind shows on her face? She has the God-given gifts, but not the temperament_. Which was, to his mind, almost a sin. Were she a better dissembler, he could imagine Clara as the most useful and most successful of his agents, the veritable crown jewel of his collection.

It was a crying shame.

He shook his head, dismissing the contemplation as a useless dream, and gestured for Avery to leave. "Thank you, Master Avery. You may leave us now," he bid. The young man bowed to both Thomas and Lady Tyrell before leaving, at which point Thomas turned back to the woman who was still grinning at him. "Madam, I am most definitely impressed enough with you to lend you that book."

Her smile widened even further, and Thomas didn't think she could shine any brighter, even if word came right now that George Spencer had dropped stone-dead. "You have my sincere thanks, Master Cromwell," she replied happily. "Shall we play more children's games, or put away childish things and talk of finances and law?"

"Indulge me a moment," he requested, wondering what kind of games she had played as a child and if they had any contribution to her sharp ears and her soft steps. "What other games did you play?"

"Well... many," she said, her brow furrowing with confusion. "We were children, and played—oh, but you must be curious about Gage games," she realised, taking a seat before his desk and holding the book he'd leant her in her lap.

"Gage games?" Thomas repeated quizzically.

"The games we Gage children would play by ourselves, because our ears were so much better than everyone else's. Well, Ben's and mine were. Rosamond's weren't as good. But she played with us anyway. We'd see how far away we could go and still hear each other—we called that one long-listen," she explained. "Ben would always call us names and tease us, and Rosa and I would tickle him until he apologised. There's another we played, called soft-step, where we would close our eyes and one of us would walk across the chapel or the library or the garden or wherever, and if you were heard by the others you'd lost. Hide-and-seek was another favourite, although we needed to be very careful that Father didn't catch us." She shrugged a little. "There were the other usual conceits—nothing noteworthy about those. Why, what did you do as a child?" she inquired curiously, turning her big brown eyes on him.

Thomas thought about his childhood in Putney. He then thought about what he could say that wouldn't shock Lady Tyrell. He then decided she could do with a little shocking, to balance out the surprises she was continually giving him. So he grinned back at her, and gave her the usual reply to such inquiries: "Me? Oh, I used to stick knives into people."

Lady Tyrell's dark eyes grew as wide as dinner plates. He could practically hear the thoughts tumbling around in her head. _Is he joking? Surely he's joking? What if he's __not__ joking?_

Giving her a cheeky, mysterious little smile and leaving her to draw her own conclusions about his childhood and the activities therein, he gestured at her satchel, lying at her feet. "What have you brought this evening, Lady Tyrell?" he inquired amiably.

"I... er. Accounts?" she replied unsurely, still staring at him. There was no fear in her eyes, thankfully—Thomas didn't think he could stand it if he'd made her dread him again—but she was clearly unsure of how to take his quip. Confusion and wariness warred with amusement and curiosity, and eventually practicality overcame both as she shook her head and bent to fetch her papers out of her satchel. "And do call me Clara—especially since you're going to be neck-deep in my finances. Though I doubt there's any better; I hear you are reputed as a great financial mind, with ties to the Italian bankers," she commented as she pulled a heavy, leather-bound ledger out of her bag.

Thomas shrugged, and replied modestly, "I made some useful connections when I lived abroad."

"I should love to travel to Italy," Lady Tyrell—Clara—sighed, hugging her book to her chest with longing, as though she could embrace the lands beyond England. "But... well, _tra il dire e il fare, c'è di mezzo il mare," _she quoted_._

He acknowledged the truth of her words—_between doing and saying lies the sea_—even as he winced at her accent. "That would be, '_tra il dire e il fare, c'è di mezzo il mare_,'" he corrected, wrapping his tongue around the Italian words like welcoming an old friend into his arms. The mere taste of the language on his tongue brought back memories of kitchens and banks and battlefields, of sun-drenched hills and crisp sea-breezes and the flavours of garlic and olive oil... a simpler, albeit more dangerous time, when he was merely Tommaso gli Inglesi and walked in the shadows of the Roman ruins, a small-bladed knife tucked securely and secretly into his sleeve.

Clara repeated it back to him nearly verbatim, correcting her vowels and mimicking the way his voice tripped up and down the words. As she did, she sounded much more Italian—or at least, she sounded as though she had actually been to Italy—and Thomas was impressed with her ability to so quickly recreate the accent she heard.

He threw out a Flemish saying; Clara, comprehending what he wanted her to do with an amused smile, repeated it back. She had a little more trouble with the more guttural sounds, but after a couple more tries sounded as though she'd been bargaining with the wool merchants for the last ten years, as he had. Thomas wondered if he set her down in Italy tomorrow if she would return to England speaking Italian like the natives. Apparently the sharpness of her hearing was not limited to merely hearing sounds, but also recreating them too.

It was such a pity—almost a sin!—that she was so honest. If he added her facility with mimicking voices and accents to her other talents, he now had an agent who could conceivably pass between countries at will without raising any eyebrows, and could (due to her higher rank), likely gain entrance to the foreign courts. He imagined having Clara's ears listening at the court of the Emperor or in the Curia in Rome, and nearly sighed with longing for the picture his mind presented.

Then he remembered who he was with.

Clara, in Rome—that stronghold of Catholicism, with the traps and snares set for the unwary and innocent? Clara, in Florence, walking alongside the bankers and the mercenaries with the hidden blades in their words? Clara, in Milan, surrounded by Dominicans and politicians, pulled between France and the Empire? Clara in Paris, in Aachen, in Flanders... he tried to picture her in spying in these cities, slipping through the throngs of courtiers and bankers and merchants, and couldn't manage any of them, but especially not Italy, where she so longed to go. She seemed utterly incongruous with what he knew of these places and the danger that lurked in the shadows there, concealing deadly little blades in the folds of garments and shoes; it was impossible to imagine her, as he knew her (though admittedly he didn't know her well), living peaceably there. Italy would eat Clara Tyrell alive.

"Mmm," he said noncommittally, feeling the pretty picture of Clara, his agent abroad—his agent at all, for that matter—going up in smoke.

"Yes, I know I shall likely never leave England," she agreed glumly, misinterpreting his reply. "I shall have to content myself with the tales of my friends."

"Have you many friends who have gone abroad?" Thomas wondered. He'd been doing a little more asking around about Lady Tyrell, and as far as he knew her best friends were Lady Agnes Sedley, with whom she was staying; Margaret Roper, Sir Thomas More's clever daughter; her siblings, Benedict Gage, the late Lady Rosamond Mead, and Mistress Marion Tyrell; the late Sarah Ansty and Elizabeth Wolton, both of whom had known her in her youth; she also had some connections to Nicholas Scrope and his family, who were her link to the Lutheran cause in England. None of them, to the best of his knowledge and the knowledge of his informants, had ever sallied forth from the island. Were his people misinformed, or was she only giving voice to wishes and hopes?

"Well, there's you," Clara pointed out with a smile, standing and moving silently to his desk in order to hand him the account book. "One day, when we have more time, I hope you might tell me of your travels."

Thomas accepted it, feeling slightly humbled at her swift, easy, apparently unconditional acceptance, knowing he didn't deserve her friendship but grateful for it nonetheless. "One day, when we have more time, I would be happy to," he promised.

At least, he'd tell her of some of his exploits from his younger days. Other things, she didn't need to know.

They settled down with the Tyrell ledgers, arranged into neat lines and columns... and with tiny little flowers, vines, and trees decorating the margins. Thomas was impressed with Clara's organisation and attention to detail (more evidence, he supposed, that she was a clever woman), and amused by the sketches which littered the pages. He wanted to tease her about embellishing her papers like other women embroidered their linens, but Clara's cheeks were pink and her hands were nervous, tension in every line of her body. Apparently her drawings were a sensitive subject. So Thomas, mindful of her feelings, said nothing, and turned back to the accounts. After a few minutes, once she realised that he would not be mocking her, she relaxed.

There were a few areas where, with a little more diligent stewardship, she might be able to squeeze out a few more pounds. But, on the whole, he had been right: the Tyrell holdings were prosperous and rather extensive. No wonder George Spencer was trying so hard to get Arthur Tyrell's wardship—it would nearly double his yearly income. Sir Robert had also been incredibly generous with his wife in his will; he'd assigned as Clara's jointure lands that comprised nearly an eighth of Warwickshire, thus leaving his widow very well off. So why...

"I mean no offense, Clara, but I really have to ask," he said, turning to her. They had moved one of the chairs around behind the desk next to his as they both pored over the account books, setting aside monies for future legal fees. "You're a wealthy woman, and a comely one, so why do you dress as you do?" She could rightfully be wearing velvets, silks, taffeta, satins, and rich furs since she was the widow of a wealthy knight, so why did she garb herself in broadcloth and bombazine gowns whose cut did nothing for her face and figure?

Judging from the scowl she directed his way, this was a question Clara had heard more than once. "I like books," she muttered.

"As do I," Thomas returned mildly. "And yet..." He gestured to his attire, which was well-cut and well-made with good cloth.

Clara's face was once again of a hue with Hampton Court's bricks, and her shoulders were hunched with humiliation. She reminded him of his sisters once more, whenever Walter their father had done something to shame the family. He wanted to reach out and put his hand between her narrow shoulder-blades and smooth the tension away, but held back. Their friendship was a new one, and he was not a tactile man by nature; indeed, the urge to touch her had taken him quite by surprise.

Instead, he gentled his voice and apologised again. "Forgive me, I've offended you."

"It's fine," Clara murmured, voice nearly inaudible. "Agnes says... and Marion, and my late sister... but I don't like people looking at me," she confessed in a whisper. Thomas could nearly hear the words she left unsaid: _If they see you, they can hurt you_.

His fingers twitched as he once again yearned to reach out to her and give comfort, but he clenched his hand into a fist. Clara would have to toughen up and find her strength if she was to survive in the world, or else suffer for her weakness as all the weak did. He would not always be there to protect her whether they became the best of friends or no, and it was best that she learn how harsh the world was and develop a coping strategy sooner, rather than later.

"Well, the judges and the jury in the courts will be looking at you, and you had better provide them with a goodly picture of modest, well-off motherhood if you want to keep your son," Thomas warned her briskly.

"I know, I know," Clara grumbled. "Agnes has an appointment with her seamstress on Saturday, and I'm sure I can make an appointment of my own for next week or the week after. Can you get me a good deal on cloth?"

"I can get you an incredible deal on cloth, and even waive some of my fees." Because blooming friendship or no, he was devoting too much of his valuable time to this enterprise to remit all payment.

Clara eyed him warily, clearly picking up on the hint. "But...?" she questioned.

"In return, I would like you to teach my nieces how to manage a household," Thomas replied, and watched as the lady beside him instantly relaxed. Why, what had she thought he was going to ask of her? "You clearly do an admirable job with your own, and mine is bereft of ladies who might otherwise teach Alice and Joan how to run a large house. Frankly, I'm getting tired of seeing to the accounts myself," he admitted with a roll of his eyes.

That made her smile. "I can well understand that," was her amused response. "If I could push the accounts off on Marion, I would... but if I did that, then I'd be dressing like this out of necessity. And that was unkind," she scolded herself, slapping her own hand lightly. Meanwhile, Thomas was chuckling lowly at her wit, and his laughter drew a wide, slightly embarrassed smile from the source of it.

She quickly assented to teaching his nieces what she knew of household management, expressing her gratitude for the trust he was placing in her; he invited to her bring her son and her sister-in-law along if she so desired, and gave her directions to the clothier's warehouse. From thence they moved onto Clara's legal brief, which Thomas could tell instantly had been composed under the eye of Thomas More.

"Do you mind?" he inquired, taking up a quill to edit. At Clara's assenting nod, he began to strike out several sentences, replace words, and rearrange other statements. "This is a well-reasoned argument, and will doubtless serve you well, but the tone in several places is a bit too..." He paused, searching for the right word. Arrogant? Imperious? Self-righteous and condescending? "...complicated. Best keep everything as simple and plain as you can, both for your own sake and for the judges, who are like as not going to be Londoners." And all of whom would likely be anything from slightly annoyed by to violently angry with Thomas More.

Oh, More was a well-respected scholar and an acclaimed author, a good statesman, a skilled lawyer, and a general credit to England in the rest of Europe, known far and wide for his integrity and his wisdom. He could be amiable and kindly to those he permitted to bask in his warmth and deemed his equals... but to others he was either condescending, chilly, or cruel—or all three. More thought himself better than the everyman's London lawyer, and made no secret of it; meanwhile, the London lawyers did not like to be talked down to by the likes of Thomas More. Furthermore, his self-righteousness tended to grate on their nerves—it certainly grated on his. More was also the self-professed scourge of heretics, wringing confessions from them by whatever methods he could, destroying lives and livelihoods in his wake whether the person was actually a Lutheran or not; and no city burgher liked to watch his neighbour, whatever his beliefs, ruined at the will of a man like More. And if Clara went into that courtroom with Thomas More's voice passing her lips, the judges would throw out her case so quickly her head would spin. Only Thomas More could get away with sounding like Thomas More; everyone else sounded intolerably haughty.

After he finished editing her brief, Thomas offered Clara a few more titbits of advice about filing it with the courts, and put forth the name of a few young lawyers who were obscure enough that they wouldn't care about the Boleyns and would certainly do their best to argue her case, especially once he made it quietly known that they would find Master Cromwell most grateful if they did their best for Lady Tyrell.

By the time they were done with the work on her brief, it was getting very late indeed; Clara was trying not to yawn even as her eyelids had begun to droop. She reminded him of a languid cat in the candlelight, lounging in the chair beside him with her eyes half-closed.

"I think you had better go home to your bed, Clara," Thomas commented after her third yawn. "We have about finished, and if I keep you any later you'll be falling asleep on my desk. Don't apologise," he added, waving away her apology for her inattention. _Not all of us can exist on four or five hours of sleep_, he finished silently.

He helped her re-pack her satchel, and as she bid him farewell and moved to leave, Thomas closed his eyes. "What are you doing?" he heard her inquire bemusedly.

"I am playing a childish game," he replied mildly, letting a cheeky grin cross his face.

He heard the slight hitch in Clara's breathing that heralded laughter—she still wouldn't audibly laugh with him—but then no noise reached his ears save the crackle of the fire in the grate. Though he strained his ears, he could hear no definite signs of her passage. There was a sound that might be the swish of a skirt... or just the fire. "Clara?" There was a sound that might be the click of a heeled shoe on the wooden floor... or just the popping of an ember. "Clara?" Perhaps that was a breath, or just the wind. Was that a footstep, or just the house?

But then he heard a definitive creak—she'd stepped on the creaky stair, the third one from the bottom. You had to plant your foot far to the left if you wanted to avoid the torturous groan of that particular step, and Clara hadn't known. "I heard you that time," he announced triumphantly, opening his eyes to the empty closet. He went out to the top of the stairs and looked down to where Clara had paused at the foot, scowling down at the stair which had given her away, then up at him.

"I almost made it," she grumbled, with an expression on her face that could almost be termed a pout.

"Almost, but not quite," Thomas concurred. "Does this mean I win?"

"Yes," Clara confirmed, still looking slightly sulky. "Although I claim unfamiliar territory as the reason for my loss."

"So noted. What do I win?" he inquired.

She pondered that for a moment. "Respect? The pride of knowing you beat me? Ben usually hit me or made me do his Latin, though I don't think you'd need any help with Latin and I don't think you're the sort of man to raise your hand to a lady. I don't know. What do you want?" she asked, looking earnestly up the stairs at him.

There were so many answers to that, many of which he didn't want to voice aloud—many of which he was surprised to find inside his head at all, for that matter. Instead, Thomas pretended to think before replying, "I have no idea. Perhaps we might postpone the prize until later, and you will owe me one."

Not that Clara wasn't deep enough in his debt already, between the legal advice he was dispensing and the financial assistance he was rendering, but now that he knew how gifted she was—how keen her ears and how light her step and how easily her tongue adopted the accents she heard—Thomas was of a mind to bind her as tightly as he could to him and his. He had found her, he had been the first to notice her potential, and if there was any possibility for that potential to become actuality, he would be the one to reap the benefits thereof. So he would tie Clara Tyrell to Cromwell interests one frail thread at a time, using anything and everything he could, from their nascent friendship to their shared interest in Lutheranism to even something as silly and insignificant as a forfeit from a childish game.

Clara, proving that intelligence did not necessarily equal shrewdness, assented readily to his proposal, without even looking for the strings that might be attached. Was it foolishness, naïveté, trust, or some combination thereof? "Fair enough," she agreed. "And now, Master Cromwell, I bid you good-night."

Thomas watched her waft out his door, and wished he could see how she placed her feet so that her footfalls were practically silent. Perhaps, when their friendship was a little older and a little stronger, he might persuade her to lift her skirts a little and show him the way she placed her feet, because if there was any possibility that he might be taught to move as softly as she, he would grab it with both hands. It would be a tremendously useful skill. However, it was a little too soon into their acquaintance for him to ask Clara—who was a gentlewoman, after all—to start displaying her legs.

He tried to picture her reaction to such a request. _Clara, would you lift your skirts to your knees so I can study the way you walk? _And he couldn't quite decide on her reaction. Wide-eyed surprise and bafflement? A well-deserved slap for his cheek? Comprehension and acquiescence? Unlike trying to envisage her as one of his agents in Rome, Thomas could picture each scenario inside his head, but still couldn't settle on which was most likely to occur. It was strange that someone so open could still be such a puzzle.

But he supposed that was half the fun.

Clara had vanished out the gate, now, with a couple of men bearing torches in her wake. Thomas went back to his closet, even more firmly resolved to nurture the friendship with the woman as best he could. Personal and practical were in complete harmony; not only did he enjoy Clara's company, but she could be potentially useful and had something he wanted.

_I might almost think it providence_, he mused as he sat back down behind his desk, _were it not for the fact that He bestowed the gifts of a most perfect spy upon a woman utterly unable to properly use them._

_What a pity_.

* * *

Clara's life began to settle into something slightly more serene. She filed her brief on Friday at Grey's Inn, formally challenging the placement of her son. She then went out to wander around London as a way of avoiding Lord Sedley's company. Marion, eager of escaping the same, had accompanied her, and Clara tried to show her sister-in-law the good parts of the city in which she'd grown to womanhood in the hopes that Marion would at least be able to come to terms with living in the city, if not enjoy it outright.

The next day, Clara visited the clothier's warehouse which had once belonged to Henry Wyckes, and had passed to Thomas Cromwell through his wife Elizabeth, with Agnes and Marion in tow. Apparently Cromwell had warned the employees that she would be coming, and their little party was treated with every courtesy, adding to the festive, excited air of the outing. Her friends, Clara judged wryly, were at least as excited about her new clothes as she was.

There was a good selection at the warehouse, and despite being tempted by Marion and Agnes to consider a deep claret-red velvet that was almost violet, all of Clara's selections were black. She chose some thick black velvet, a sleek black silk, and a fine black wool to make her new gowns—and it was "gowns", plural. What with Master Cromwell's excellent deal on cloth, the waiving of some of his fees, and his more sensible estimates about the cost of the venture, Clara felt that she had enough space in her budget to have two new gowns made. She even splurged on some black ribbons and some jet beads to trim an old cap.

That Monday, she had an appointment with Agnes' seamstress, and the three women spend the weekend holed up in Agnes' privy closet deciding on the style of Clara's new gowns. (They were also hiding from Lord Sedley, who was still spending most of his time in the house; thankfully, he was due back at court after Sunday, and all the women—including his wife—were eagerly anticipating his absence.) Truthfully, the style of the gowns were mostly left up to Agnes and Marion, which was best; Agnes' preferences were a little more daring, and Marion's quite conservative. Between the two of them, Clara struck a balance between fashion and modesty—hopefully perfect for appearing before a judge in court.

Wednesday, Clara returned once more to the house at Austin Friars, ledgers in tow, to fulfil her side of the bargain. Richard Cromwell formally introduced her to his cousins, Alice Wellyfed and Joan Williamson, before leaving them in the withdrawing room downstairs. It was a little awkward at first between the lot of them; all three women remembered the scornful comments of the younger which the older had overheard; their interactions, once Richard left, were rife with uncomfortable pauses... until Clara made a quip about the impending improvement of her gowns. The two girls tittered embarrassedly, but relaxed; Joan even offered a shy apology for their words.

Things went from there, and by the end of the evening Clara, Alice, and Joan were chattering like old friends. Clara was glad this duty would not be an onerous one; they were both good girls, and eager to learn what she had to teach them. Both of them wanted to "help Uncle Thomas, since he has so much work to do." Though neither Alice nor Joan was a mathematical genius and Alice in particular was having difficulties keeping track of everything, they were clever enough and, most importantly, willing. Clara knew they'd eventually acquit themselves well—which was what she told Master Cromwell when she passed him on her way out. He was just returning from Whitehall, and they struck up a conversation in the doorway which lasted for an hour and a half, and only ended when Clara started yawning. Cromwell sent her on her way with the same torchbearers who had escorted her last time, an admonition to bring her son next time, and an invitation to an underground sermon next Sunday night. Clara, who had never been to such a sermon, gladly accepted, pending any other matters which would demand her attention, and walked back to Whitefriars with a smile on her face. For the first time since summer, when the Sweat had ravened her family like a pack of wolves, she felt that she was almost happy.

So naturally, something happened the very next day which ruined it:

Clara received the news that George Spencer had come to London.

* * *

**A/N part deux:** Yes, this chapter is slow. I know, you don't have to tell me. It's kind of necessary character-stuff, though; things are being built here which need to be built, even if it's slow. But I promise there will be more action next chapter—including a fight!

Also, I know less than nothing about legal procedure nowadays, let alone about legal procedures in 1528. I'm doing my best with the limited information I have, but might still get things wrong. I'm trying to be vague about what, exactly, Clara is doing for that reason.

Also also, Clara's crazy-acute hearing is not something I just made up, either; there are records of people with insanely keen ears. In fact, there's even a name for a similar condition, called hyperacusis—which is, according to the AIT website, described as, "reduced tolerance to suprathreshold sounds. Sounds that can be tolerated by others but annoying, uncomfortable, and in some cases painful to others." Clara would not have hyperacusis (certainly not if she can manage living in London), but instead be categorised as having hypersensitive hearing. But it's not just something I pulled out of thin air—these things actually exist!

_Historical note:_ Technically, Phlippe de Commines' works weren't titled _Mémoires_ until the 1550's, but I couldn't find anything about what they were called prior to 1552, and so went with _Mémoires_.

So yes. This chaptered hasn't been beta'ed yet (and I do have a beta now—many thanks to Shout In A Whisper!) since I kind of ran out of time. And, admittedly, I got impatient (Friday was my last day off; I have to go back to work tomorrow), since if I didn't post today you'd have to wait until Tuesday. So if you see any typoes, that's why. Review anyway, though!


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** So, this chapter is huge. It quite surprised me with its hugeness. But then, kind of a lot happens. Sorry about the wait, but a) the chapter is long, and b) it kept getting rewritten. This is version three, which has also been beta'ed by the lovely Shout In A Whisper. Woot. So, enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 6:**

_26 November, 1528_

Clara's head jerked up as though it had been pulled on a string. She fixed her brother with an intense stare, and said only one thing: "Where?"

She, Agnes, and Marion were huddling around the fire in Agnes' drawing room, recently returned to the house from Cheapside, where Clara had had a dress-fitting. One of her new gowns was nearly ready, and so they had all trucked out through the damp, chilly rain to the seamstress' to see how it was coming along. And once they returned, flush with the anticipation of seeing Lady Tyrell dressed considerably better than she now was, the three ladies discovered a rather damp Benedict Gage awaiting them, bearing but one piece of news:

_George Spencer has come to London. _

"Where?" Clara demanded again, rushing over to grab at his doublet, as though she might shake the answers from him if he did not deliver the news fast enough. "Where is he?"

"Slow down," Ben chided her gently, covering her hands with his. "What, are you going to hare off and strangle him straightaway?"

"No," Clara replied, scowling up at her brother. "Of course not. I just want to talk to him... look him in the eye, take his measure... see if he might now agree to drop his case and leave Arthur with me," she added quickly, instantly feeling stupid for voicing the thought aloud and wishing she hadn't said it. She knew it was a naive hope, but it was one she had proved quite unable to quash. Perhaps when Spencer understood just how fiercely she was prepared to fight, he would give up and go home?

Of course, it was far more likely that her family and friends were going to mock her for her naïveté.

"Didn't you already write to him several times with just such a proposal to absolutely no effect?" Agnes inquired flatly.

Clara's cheeks began to burn. "Yes."

"And wasn't his only reply an extremely brief, discourteous letter?" the blonde kept pressing. Agnes knew this because Spencer's reply—which he had clearly taken his sweet time penning—had finally reached its recipient in London. Clara had been furious with the tone and the content of the letter, which naturally Marion and Agnes had read immediately afterwards, and had stormed out into the garden to throw stones.

The flush crept up her face. "Yes."

"In which he accused you of being foolish and brainless and all but told you to pick up your needle and shut your mouth?"

The high colour in Clara's face began to spread down her neck. "Yes."

"And also threatened to reduce your allowance and trim your jointure lands once he had Arthur's wardship?"

"He's got no right to do that," Marion interjected fiercely. "Robin made sure of it. No one can touch Clara's dower lands—not Arthur or Spencer or Cardinal Wolsey himself."

"That's not the point," insisted Agnes. "The point is that there is clearly no possibility for rapprochement with Master Spencer—not if he was so unmannerly to the mother of his future ward."

"I have to agree with Ag—Lady Agnes," Ben concurred, correcting himself quickly as he remembered not to be too familiar. His stumble made Agnes smile and Marion sniff, while Clara pretended not to notice. "I've been asking around, and I hear no few things about the man."

"I have to at least try," Clara returned quietly, though this further evidence in regards to Spencer's character (or lack thereof) made the knot of worry in her chest grow tighter. "I have to try anything and everything I can. If that means going to see George Spencer in...?" she trailed off, looking to Ben for the location.

"An inn near Charing Cross," her brother sighed, surrendering.

"In an inn near Charing Cross, I will," she finished firmly. Her friends and family all looked uneasy about this resolution—Agnes was looking up at Ben, who was looking entreatingly back, as though each of them expected the other to convince her otherwise, while Marion kept her eyes up towards the ceiling, as though she was praying for help. But Clara would not be swayed. "I'll go alone if I have to, but I'm still going."

Benedict sighed, and moved to stand. "Well then..." he began.

Clara suddenly understood at least some of their reluctance. "Oh, but not now!" she protested. Suddenly, everyone seemed to relax; Marion's hands released her damp skirt from her fists and she dropped her gaze from the heavens, Agnes' shoulders lost their tension, and Benedict sat back down. "It's absolutely foul outside, and I have no intentions of dealing with a man who seems at least as bad as the weather." She paused, then smiled. "I'll go tomorrow."

"I'm going with you," Ben said resignedly. "I'm not about to let you go confront the man alone."

"Who said anything about a confrontation?" Clara challenged. "I just want to talk to him."

"Clare, as far as you're concerned this man wants to take your only son from you, and as far as he's concerned you're standing in the way of an extremely lucrative wardship," Ben pointed out dryly. "I'd be surprised if you didn't have a confrontation."

* * *

_27 November, 1528_

"Over my dead body!" Clara hissed as Benedict nearly dragged her out of the inn. "Over my dead body will I let that man have my son."

As her brother had predicted, the meeting between Clara and Master Spencer had not gone particularly well.

The two siblings had arrived at the Bell—a large, handsome stone building where Spencer had taken lodgings—in the late morning. It was a very fine inn, not too far from Whitehall, which was apparently used to catering to the well-off guests who had business at court but were not high-ranking or well-connected enough to warrant chambers within the actual palace. The yard was paved with flagstones, and there were large stables distant enough from the main wings so as not to disturb the guests.

Upon arriving and being shown into a common room with fine large tables and several roaring fires, they dispatched a servant to inform Master Spencer that Lady Tyrell and her brother were here to wait upon him. And wait they did; apparently, Spencer was not yet ready to receive guests, and they were left to cool their heels for nearly an hour. Ben, sanguine about the delay, ordered some ale and settled back to wait, falling into an easy conversation with some of the other patrons. Clara, however, was inwardly fuming. This was just another example of George Spencer's poor manners; surely no one would expect such a discourteous man to have the charge of her son? What sort of manners would Arthur learn—or worse, neglect to learn—under his guidance?

She turned her ears onto the conversations going on around her, eavesdropping on the talk which seemed to mostly centre around the doings of the king and court, with some discourse from the innkeeper and the servants on the guests that were staying at the time. Clara listened to what they were saying, but had no idea if any of it pertained to Spencer. There was a guest who had to be carried up to bed last night, dead drunk; there was a guest who tried to tumble one of the maids until the innkeeper was able to "persuade" him otherwise; there was a guest who had bought wine for the whole inn last night; there were a couple of guests who got into a brawl in the stable yard last night about the outcome of a game of dice; there were foreigners who barely spoke English, and a beautiful lady who, one serving maid swore, was sleeping with her man-at-arms.

The only thing Clara was certain of was that George Spencer was not a foreigner, or woman sleeping with her man-at-arms. Any of the others could apply to him. So she could be waiting for a drunkard, a lecher, a brawler, a gambler, or a spender—or perhaps some combination of all of them. Or none of them? She tried to be optimistic: perhaps Master Spencer partook of the free wine the night before and went peacefully up to bed, only to be awakened by the fight, which was why he was sleeping late?

Though as time wore on, that hope grew dimmer and dimmer. It took an hour and a half before Spencer came downstairs, and that kind of tardiness had to be a deliberate slight. Even Benedict was scowling by the time they first laid eyes on the man who wanted Clara's son, swaggering into the hall as though he owned it.

Master George Spencer of Berkshire was not a very tall man—Clara could probably look him in the eye were they both standing—but he was a good-looking one... and he knew it, too. He had strong, even features and thick, light brown hair that he allowed to fall into his hazel-green eyes; he had a muscled, athletic build which he showed off to his best advantage with exquisitely tailored clothes, made from the finest fabrics in flattering colours; and he had good teeth, which were displayed as he smiled charmingly at Benedict and Clara.

"Master Gage, Lady Tyrell, welcome," Spencer said warmly, bowing shallowly to them. "My apologies for my lateness; I am still weary from the journey from Berkshire."

Benedict put on his courtier's face and replied coolly that it was all right, but Clara fought the urge to scoff audibly. As though some superficial charm and a few pretty lies would win her over—especially since the fragrance of mint on his breath was not completely masking the odour of stale wine.

Giving her another ostensibly charming smile, which gave Clara an opportunity to see that his eyes were slightly reddened, Spencer called out, "Wine! I pray you, innkeeper, bring the finest wines and the best food for my guests!"

As Spencer turned back to talk to her brother, Clara overheard one of the serving wenches remark giddily to the innkeeper, "He keeps on like this, master, and we'll be able to add onto the kitchen before the new year."

"And if he can't pay his bill, I'll be taking those fine horses of his, and all those fine clothes," the innkeeper added with a considerably more cynical outlook.

So Spencer was apparently the man who had been buying wine for the whole inn. Clara turned her gaze back to the man now recounting a hunting anecdote to her brother and considered him, frowning thoughtfully. From what she understood, George Spencer was a reasonably well-off gentleman, but she didn't think he was wealthy enough for this kind of... magnificence. He dressed far above himself—technically, with the sumptuary laws being what they were, he wasn't supposed to be wearing that blue velvet, nor the sable trimming (as it was, unless he flashed himself around court dressed thusly, no one would probably care). He also flung money around with impunity, not only staying at a very expensive, high-class inn but spending freely during his stay therein. And this was the man to whom they wanted her to entrust her son's legacy? For if Spencer got Arthur's wardship, he would be in charge of running the Tyrell estates until Arthur came of age and teaching her son to do the same, and as it seemed now he'd milk them dry. Was he as much of a spendthrift as he appeared? Or did he have more resources at his disposal than the gossip implied?

The faintest flicker of an idea sparked in her mind. _I need to have a look at his account books._ But she flicked it away—it was a stupid idea, and utterly impossible. George Spencer would probably never let her have a look at his ledgers.

Another quarter-hour was wasted as Spencer rattled on about wine and hunting and nothing in particular, until Benedict finally lost patience with the man and interrupted his self-aggrandising tale. "Master Spencer, we did not come solely to speak to you about hunting. There was a purpose to our coming here," he said crisply, though politely.

"Was there?" Spencer inquired, sounding slightly annoyed that his monologue had been cut short. "I thought Lady Tyrell merely wished to make my acquaintance before passing her son into my care."

The smugness in his voice made Clara want to slap him. "Whether or not you will be awarded Arthur's wardship is still undecided," she replied sharply. "Have the courts not informed you of the countersuit I filed?"

"They did," Spencer replied, an answering edge of belligerence emerging from his ostentatious charm, and the look he turned on her was decidedly unfriendly. "But you are merely delaying the inevitable, madam. You are a mere woman, after all. The courts will rule in my favour, and your son will become my ward."

Now she was entirely prepared to throttle him, her fingers twitching from where they were clenching in her skirts. _A mere woman_. She bit the inside of her lip to keep from opening her mouth and saying something discourteous. Such as, _you will sing this mere woman a different tune when I send you back to Berkshire alone_. Or, _I may be a mere woman but I will still slap that smirk off your face and scratch your eyes out of your sockets_. Or, _eat shit and die, you sheep-biting varlot_.

Things went rapidly downhill from there. Now that Spencer knew that Benedict and Clara were there to challenge him, his affected amiability fell slowly away, and by the end of the interlude they were barely managing civility at all. Spencer kept jabbing at her, telling her all the things he'd do when he had guardianship of her son—_I'll teach him to hunt like me... every boy should learn to hunt, and there's no one else to teach the poor fatherless lad; I'll teach him to dress fashionably... something it seems you've no withal to instruct, Lady Tyrell; I'll teach him to be generous and munificent and a perfect knight, which he could never learn if he were raised by a mere women in a country backwater_—and Clara was clinging to her temper by the skin of her teeth. Even Benedict was starting to reveal some of the anger behind his courtier's facade, and the minute Spencer began to make insinuations about Clara's virtue and character, he stood. With the barest of civilities, the two siblings took their leave.

"I will see you in court, Master Spencer," Clara snarled as they departed.

Spencer raised a brow and sneered at her. "A woman appearing in court by herself? How immodest! What kind of mother does poor little Arthur have?" he challenged mockingly.

As Benedict pulled her out of the inn, Clara glanced back to see Spencer tugging one of the wenches into his lap with a smarmy smile on his face as he re-donned that mantle of exaggerated charm. This further confirmation of his low character made her anger burn even higher, and she turned to her brother and hissed, "Over my dead body!"

Which brought them to the present.

"Agreed," Benedict growled. "You absolutely must win this case, Clare. I shudder to think what kind of man Arthur will grow into under that... person's influence."

However, as they walked back to Agnes' house, Clara realised that nothing had really changed. Abhorrent knave or not, George Spencer still had the backing of the Boleyn family, which was grown powerful under the king's favour. He wasn't going to retract his claim any more than Clara was.

She recalled the thought she'd had earlier, about needing to have a look at his books. It had been immediately dismissed as impossible... but now it seemed that instead she would have to find a way to make it achievable. If she could perhaps prove that he was not as wealthy as he seemed—or prove that he was in debt and would be running her son's estates into the ground—she would have another weapon to hand. And perhaps she could find something else to use against him, as well.

Therefore, she needed to have a look at his effects, some time when he wasn't around. But how?

This conundrum occupied Clara's mind until she and Benedict were walking along the street that would lead them to Agnes' house. Before they entered the gate, she put a hand on her brother's arm and drew him to a stop. "Clara?" he asked gently, meeting her gaze. His green eyes were compassionate and worried; he was clearly expecting her to weep or rage or otherwise need comforting. Well, he was going to be surprised at what she needed.

"I need to borrow some of your clothes," she announced quietly.

Benedict blinked a few times, as if having trouble understanding. "You want..."

"To borrow some of your clothing. Or some of your servants' clothing," Clara added, deciding that it would probably be best if she dressed discreetly in cloth that was neither too fine nor too coarse. "I need doublet, hose, shirt, shoes, hat... everything."

Her brother stared at her for a long moment, before deciding, "I don't want to know." Benedict turned and kept walking towards Agnes' gate, pontificating as he did, "I don't want to know what you are planning to do with men's clothing, so I'm not going to ask, because I don't want to know."

Clara followed him, keeping pace with him and patiently waiting until he was done. "Make sure whatever you lend me is unremarkable—drab, even," was her mild reply as they entered the yard of Lord Sedley's house. "I don't want to attract attention."

"I don't want to know," Ben muttered again.

* * *

_28 November, 1528_

The next afternoon, Benedict brought her a woollen doublet with breeches, sleeves, and hose, all in an unremarkable hues of russet and grey, with a pair of boots that were a little too big, but would suffice. She unwrapped the parcel in the privacy of her chambers, with only Benedict with her as she tried on the jacket and boots. Marion and Agnes had wanted to follow them up, but Clara bade them remain, promising that they wouldn't be long and would be back to join them forthwith. Which wasn't a lie—Clara had decided not to leave for Charing Cross until evening, when the fading light would provide her with more concealment, and that was at least two hours from now.

"These do very well," Clara concluded, walking around the room as she tested her new footwear. "Though I'll have to stuff the boots if I don't want to galumph around like a horse." Indeed, the over-large boots made her footsteps much louder than normal. But between some handkerchiefs stuffed into the toes and Ben making some adjustments to the lacings, the boots were made to fit as best as they were ever going to; now, when she walked, she was able to achieve at least a little of her usual noiselessness.

"I'd win at soft-step for sure if you were wearing those," was Benedict's grinning verdict.

"Without question," Clara grumbled, scowling down at her borrowed boots. She hadn't been doing very well at that game, or with the skills it taught, of late; Cromwell had beaten her at her own game, and now Benedict had as well—or would have, if they were playing. Though she could blame both losses on outside affects (to wit, tricky stairs and badly-fitted boots), Clara was not at all used to being bested in this matter, no matter what handicap she began under. She would have to practise to get back in top form.

But not now—though she had a couple hours of leisure time before she needed to depart, she also needed to think of something to keep Agnes and Marion in the dark about what she was doing. Pondering, she pulled off the boots and shrugged out of the man's doublet, laying them aside for later before slipping her own shoes back on.

"What should I tell Agnes and Marion?" she wondered softly to Ben as they left her chambers and headed back downstairs.

"Don't let me hear whatever it is," her brother grumbled, "because I don't want to know what you're doing. You know, this is probably illegal," he realised darkly.

Clara made no comment to that, though inwardly she was cringing. Yes, she knew what she was planning on doing was very much against the law, and could likely get her thrown into prison if she was caught—especially if it was Spencer who caught her. But by the same token, the rewards if she succeeded were well worth the risk. Her arsenal was much smaller than her opponent's; she couldn't turn down another tool if it was presented to her, even if there was a risk involved in acquiring it. Anything—anything—to keep Arthur with her.

Even dressing up like a man and sneaking into George Spencer's rooms at The Bell to pilfer through his papers.

"You are finally come down to join us!" Agnes cried as the two of them entered her withdrawing room off the great hall, standing and moving to join them in a flurry of pink damask. "We wondered what manner of secrets and plotting kept you from our company," she teased, with a coy look at Ben. To her visible surprise, however, the object of her flirtation looked suddenly uncomfortable, and Clara could feel her cheeks getting hot—she knew she was probably as pink as her friend's gown. Agnes narrowed her cornflower-blue eyes. "You are plotting!" she concluded, slipping between the siblings and linking her arms with theirs, practically dragging them to the circle of chairs and benches where Marion awaited them, her sewing in her lap and her blue-green eyes fixed unwaveringly on Clara. "Come now, you must tell us what plots are afoot!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Clara replied guiltily, knowing her lie was plainly writ across her face as she sat down next to her sister-in-law, looking awkwardly down at the table.

"Clara," Marion pressed, leaning forward and grasping Clara's hands tightly.

Clara sighed in annoyance. "All right, fine. I have some idea what you're talking about," she said grumpily.

"And?" Agnes prompted. "What are you up to?"

Her face and ears were burning, and she looked down at her and Marion's joined hands in vexation. "Really, it's nothing—" she began.

"It's not nothing," Marion interrupted, tightening her grip on Clara's hands. "I know you, Clara, and I know when you're up to something. You, dear girl, are up to something; now come, tell us what it is." When Clara set her jaw mulishly, Marion ran gentle fingers across her face. "We only wish to help you, you know. You're not the only one who loves your son."

And now Clara felt extremely guilty. She had rather been shutting Marion out—Marion, and Benedict, and Agnes too—taking all the work onto her own shoulders without even thinking that her loved ones might want to do something themselves. However, she didn't have many other options. There were things that needed to be seen to that only she could do—interacting with Master Cromwell and sneaking into The Bell were two examples which immediately came to mind. While she wished she could unburden herself to her family and friends, and share a burden which sometimes felt as though it was ready to crush her under its weight, it wasn't up to her. She had to think of them as well. It was better that no one knew what she was going to be doing tonight, for their sakes... and her own.

After all, Clara wasn't exactly proud of what she was planning to do.

"I know," she acknowledged softly. "I know. But some things... some things have to remain secret." Especially if they were against the law.

Agnes and Marion protested vehemently, and even Ben was raising his eyebrows at her. Finally, Clara sighed and gave it—slightly. "If you truly wish to help," she began, with as much sternness as she was capable of, "then tell anyone who asks that I was with you all night."

"You want us to lie for you?" Agnes challenged archly.

Clara didn't react to her needling, though inside her, something shrank. She hated lying. But needs must when the devil drives... and it was for her son. She had to remember that—all of this was for her son. Something Martin Luther had written came to mind, then: "_Be a sinner and sin strongly, but more strongly have faith and rejoice in Christ_." She had the sinning strongly down pat, especially with this little stunt. Whether or not her faith was stronger was anyone's guess... but she believed she had that down, too.

So she didn't hesitate. "Yes. If anyone asks—if they ever ask—say I was here."

"But why?" Marion pleaded. "Why won't you tell me what is going on?"

"Because if the worst happens, I want to ensure you can swear, under oath, in a court of law that you knew nothing of my actions," Clara replied honestly.

That didn't seem to reassure her friends, who continued to wheedle, then demand more information. But Clara would not be moved. She merely pursed her lips and kept silent—wishing, rather uncharitably, that she had friends who trusted her more to know what she was about.

Once it became apparent to the other two women that Clara would not say anything about her plans, they subsided with ill-grace. Ben, desperate to smooth things over, suggested bringing Arthur and Henry down, which was a plan Clara firmly espoused. The boys were sent for, and thankfully their presence lightened the atmosphere in the room, though Agnes and Marion were still sending Clara slightly resentful looks, which Clara ignored, cheerfully (if slightly awkwardly) passing the time with her son until the sun began to set in earnest, at which point she excused herself and went upstairs, dragging Ben along with her to help her get dressed.

Naturally, Marion followed after them. "I'm still not telling you anything, Marion," Clara said firmly as she climbed the stairs.

"Clara, please," her sister-in-law entreated. "Whatever it is you're doing—"

"Is my responsibility, not yours," she interrupted sternly.

"But I want to help you," Marion persisted, reaching to grasp Clara's hand, pulling her to a halt at the top of the stairs. "I came to London to help you—so let me help you, please."

"And you are helping," Clara returned, pressing Marion's hand between her own before pulling away and walking into her chambers. "You're helping me by taking care of Arthur when I'm otherwise occupied, and I am truly grateful to have you with me. But this... this, I need to do alone."

Marion walked too loudly and, as a very beautiful woman, drew too much attention to herself to accompany Clara this evening. And unless Clara brought her along as a distraction for Spencer—and she would not and absolutely could not countenance throwing her sister-in-law to a man such as he only to buy herself some time—there was nothing Marion could do to help, and would in fact only be a hindrance.

Clara closed the door behind her, shutting Marion out with a soft, "I'm sorry," before turning around and beginning to unlace her dress.

Benedict discreetly removed himself to the small closet off the bedchamber while Clara undressed, and then donned the men's clothing as best she could. The garb was full of unfamiliar ties and she was unsure of how it all went together and how it all ought to fit—although at least the outfit was bulky enough that she wouldn't have to bind her breasts down. Not that there would be much to bind, in any case.

When she was mostly dressed, she called for her brother, and he emerged from the closet and assisted her in making adjustments to the fit of the doublet, hose, and the too-large boots, before helping her into the jacket. The last step was to tuck her long hair, plaited neatly into a braid, up under a hat. Then she stood before her brother and smiled nervously. "Well?"

"You look... like a boy," Benedict concluded with a shrug. "It's a good disguise, so long as no one looks too closely at your face and recognises you when you're back in skirts."

"I don't mean to see any of these people again, if I encounter people at all," Clara replied. "I mean to get in, snoop around, and leave, hopefully with no conversation at all."

"From your mouth to God's ears, Clare," was all her brother said in return. He then went back downstairs to distract Marion and Agnes while Clara, dressed as a man, slipped out the servant's entrance and walked briskly west through the London twilight.

Full night had fallen by the time she approached The Bell, and the stable-yard was illuminated only by the flickering lights of torches. She could hear music and the loud noises of revelry as she approached, and noted that there was a steady influx of people entering and leaving the inn's stone buildings. Good—that meant her own transit would pass unremarked.

Clara slipped around to the back, keeping her pace steady and even—no sign of rushing, no furtiveness in her movements, no lingering in the shadows (though she certainly passed through them and near them as much as she could). She walked as though she had every right to be there, and so people would assume she did. Whereas sneaking and skulking and sly sidling through the shadows... that kind of stealth drew peoples' eyes, and led them to the correct conclusion. This was something she had learned long ago, in childhood: when sneaking about, don't look like you're sneaking about.

She made it to the kitchen without further ado, and found the cooks and servers hard at work, running back and forth between the kitchen outbuilding and the inn itself. One of the young maids dawdled, and passed near to Clara; she reached out and grabbed the maid's arm, causing the girl to gasp and turn, relaxing when she saw a skinny boy.

The girl's pale eyes flicked quickly from cap to shoes, and she must have decided that the cloth was rich enough for her to be addressing a social superior, since she curtsied quickly. "Yes sir?" she inquired.

"George Spencer," Clara said quietly, pulling a silver coin from her purse and holding it up before the girl's eyes. "What room is he staying in?"

The maid's eyes sharpened as she locked greedy eyes on the coin. "George Spencer..." she drew out the name. "I'm not sure who you're speaking of, master." But her leading tone said otherwise.

Clara knew how this worked, and drew out two more silver coins. "A gentleman from Berkshire. About my height, fairish hair, hazel eyes. Do you know him now, mistress?" she inquired, letting the torchlight flicker on the shining metal of the coins.

"Aye, master," the maid confirmed. "I know 'im now. Last room on the left, the second floor," she informed Clara, pointing at a shuttered window directly above the kitchen's roof.

Clara handed the three coins over, adding another two with a pointed, "For your discretion, mistress, with my thanks." The girl grinned brightly, nodding her understanding and her acquiescence, before tucking her windfall into her bodice and bobbing another curtsey.

Now that she knew where she was going, Clara wasted no time in getting up there. Slipping confidently, if quietly, into the inn, she passed the great hall without looking, moving with purpose for the stairs, as though she was a guest and needed only to fetch something from her rooms. But she paused on the stair—it was empty, and everyone focussed on the hall—and looked back. She could see George Spencer in the middle of it all, sprawled in a chair with a buxom barmaid on his lap, his arm around her waist, surrounded by loud, drunk men, exchanging lewd jokes and laughing boisterously. Even as she watched, Spencer called for more wine—on him, prompting a hearty cheer from the other patrons, and a giggle from the wench on his lap.

Clara's fists clenched involuntarily, and she wanted nothing more than to go down and smack him. How could he possibly think—how could anyone possibly think—that George Spencer was an appropriate man to raise her only son? The idea of Arthur growing up under his tutelage and one day acting like this was like a knife to the chest.

_Over my dead body_, she once more swore inwardly.

The hall was empty when she got upstairs, though she could hear two men talking in one chamber she passed, and the sounds of passionate copulation in another. Spencer's, however, was silent. Clara pressed her ear to the keyhole and listened intently—still nothing. Good. She then stood, and tried the door—locked.

That brought her up short. A locked door. She leaned back against the wall and thought furiously. What to do now? She could sneak downstairs and try to get the key—but that would take too much time and draw too much attention, and she might even fail. Likely the innkeeper wouldn't relinquish his keys easily, no matter how high the bribe; it would be bad for business. She could try to bribe a servitor into letting her in, but that was also fraught with danger—suppose the servant didn't want to let her in? Or worse, suppose the alarm was raised? With the money Spencer was flinging around at the inn, Clara would wager he was fairly popular with the people who worked therein. They might be interested enough in his gold to protect his interests. She could try to pick the lock, but that would look incredibly suspicious to anyone who happened to pass by, and there was little likelihood of success, anyway. Clara didn't even know how to pick locks.

Recalling the configuration of the room and what was just outside, Clara sighed, and squared her shoulders. There was only one option.

* * *

Thirty minutes later found Clara on the roof of the inn's kitchen, trying to use a thin-bladed eating knife to prise open the shutters of George Spencer's room.

She'd gone back outside after her aborted attempt to enter the chambers by the door, and made as though she was walking out to the stables, bowing courteously to those she passed. En route, she was waylaid by an older, likely married couple on their own way upstairs. The man complained about licentious young people, and praised Clara for being the picture of modest, mannerly young manhood. His wife agreed, pinching Clara's cheek and calling her a "love of a lad". They both laughed at her when she blushed violently, before blessing "him" and sending "him" on "his" way.

Once out in the yard, Clara made a beeline for the back of the kitchen, scouting out ways to get onto the roof. Providence had placed several barrels whose contents she didn't want to examine too closely near to the slope of the roof, back behind the building where (at the moment) no one was. It would be a little difficult, but she should be able to get up there, and walk the ridgepole to the window. Being seen would likely be her greatest danger. That, or falling.

She scrambled up onto the barrel, which thankfully was sturdy enough on the cobbled ground (though it smelled awful; there were likely entrails and other offal contained therein), and reached up to fist her thankfully-gloved hands in the thatch. There was a moment of panic when she heard footsteps approaching her position and she froze, trying to think of the most efficient and least painful way down from her perch and scrambling desperately for something she could say if she was caught... but thankfully she heard someone call "John!" sharply, and the footsteps (John's footsteps, presumably) quickly receded.

With a great deal of heaving and wriggling, Clara managed to hoist herself onto the sloping roof of the kitchen, where she lay on her back, panting, hearing the hubbub of the kitchen below her and aware of the chimney smoking directly to her left. Her forearms and shoulders burned, and her legs were stinging—she didn't really want to check, but she had a feeling her borrowed hose might be torn. She'd owe Benedict money for that.

When she felt recovered from her exertions, Clara carefully rose and crawled up to the peak in the roof, peering over it across the yard for people who might notice a person crossing the roof. There were mostly servants passing back and forth, but at any moment one of them might look up. She listened for a moment—was it loud enough in the kitchen below to mask any strange noises the roof might make? Deciding it was, she mostly rolled, wriggled, and crawled across the roof, realising as she did that she'd owe Benedict for the breeches, gloves, and possibly the jacket as well, all of which would be dirty and possibly torn when she returned them.

She reached the window and scrambled upright, hiding in the shadows of the stone building and praying fervently that no one would see her. Pressing her ear to the shutters, she listened intently for any sounds from within. Was the room occupied? Had Spencer brought a servant who lingered in the room? Thankfully, she heard nothing from inside, and withdrew from its sheath a narrow blade she'd borrowed off Ben. This probably wasn't what he intended it to be used for, Clara allowed, as she slid it between the shutters and began to move it up and down, searching for the latch. When she hit resistance, she jerked her wrist just so, and felt something give. The shutters relaxed slightly, and she pulled a glove off to use her nails to get them open the rest of the way. Once that was done, she climbed inside with a sigh of relief.

It was dark in Spencer's room, even with the shutters open. Squinting, she cast about for any sign of a candle, and found one on the stand beside the bed. She softly slipped over and fumbled for a moment, trying to light the wick in the dark; eventually, she managed, and by the flickering light of a single candle went back to close the shutters, check that no one was coming from outside, and then begin her search.

That was not precisely an easy task; the chamber was spacious, and there were many things in it. There was an open trunk made of leather that she pilfered through first, finding nothing but clothes. She rocked a heavy, locked coffer back and forth, listening to its contents shift, before letting it still—only jewels within, to her guess. A leather satchel held bottles of unknown liquids and a ring of keys, which she carefully extracted in case she found something locked, and in one of the inn's wooden containers were shoes and a riding coat. She knelt to peer under the bed, which was where she spied a wooden box that could be a portable desk.

Feeling a surge of triumph, reached under and pulled the box out. She shook it gently, and the rasp of paper against paper met her ears. Success! Carefully, she took a seat on the floor, laying her plunder across her knees and placing the candle on the chest at the foot of the bed so it could illuminate the contents of the little chest-desk. The whole thing was locked, but Clara would bet one of the keys from the satchel would open it.

She was just getting ready to try the most likely key—the smallest one—when a sound from outside the room caught her attention. For the second time this evening, she froze: footsteps from outside were getting louder as they approached the room down the corridor.

Oh God, what to do? Could she make it back out the window, if the owner of the footsteps was making his way towards this room? Clara quickly glanced at the window and the distance between herself and the window as the footsteps drew to a halt outside that very door. The sound of a key in the lock made her decision. No time; under the bed.

She blew out the candle, stuffed the pilfered keys into her doublet (praying fervently that Spencer—or whoever it was at the door—would not need them), and immediately wriggled under the bed, dragging the locked box and the candle with her, which dripped hot wax all over her bare hand. Hissing quietly through her teeth, Clara scooted further back into the shadows as the door unlocked and swung open, spilling the light from outside into the darkness of the room.

_Please, don't need the keys. Don't need the desk. Please, God, don't let him look under the bed_, Clara entreated silently as she watched a pair of feet walk towards the bed under which she lay hidden. They were clad in rough, plain shoes and simple grey hose—a servant's feet, unless she was mistaken.

Said servant went to the leather satchel from which she'd lifted the keys, and Clara felt her heart stop. Sweet Jesus, this was it—the servant needed the keys she had in her doublet and when he wasn't able to find them he'd raise the alarm and everyone would pile into the room to search for the missing keys and some huge, burly, bad-tempered guard would find her hiding under the bed with the keys and they'd hound her for a thief and throw her in prison and she'd never see her son again and... and...

...and the servant was moving away. He'd apparently only needed one of the bottles.

Oh.

Her heart restarted, and Clara released a shaking breath as the servant shut the door behind him and relocked it. She could hear his footsteps retreating back from whence they'd come, but remained under the bed for a few moments more, breathing deeply and evenly to dispel the remaining fright.

When her heart had stopped trying to pound its way out of her chest, she finally dragged herself out from under the bed and immediately set back to work. The little interlude with the servant had reminded her of how precarious and dangerous was her present condition, and there was a new haste in her movements. Not that haste did her much good as she tried to get the candle re-lit—her hands were shaking fiercely—but once the wick was alight she set the candle back on the ground and stuck her head back under the bed to fetch back the box which she believed to be Spencer's portable desk. It took her a few moments to find the correct key, once she'd fished them out from her doublet, but finally she had the box open.

A thrill ran through her body. The box was full of papers—it was indeed a portable desk.

It was also a complete mess—clearly, Spencer was not a very organised man—but still, Clara started grinning widely as she pawed through the papers. This was just what she was looking for. Most of the disorganised papers were bills and promissory notes—bills from clothiers, tailors, haberdashers, cobblers, horse-sellers, other innkeepers... and gambling debts. Massive gambling debts. Spencer was definitely a spendthrift; Clara was appalled at how much money he was flinging around. A quick calculation revealed the bills in her lap to be nearly half of her annual income, and God only knew how many more bills he'd left behind in Berkshire.

She quickly dug through the jumble of papers—the neatness of which her search was not helping—and found a blank sheet of parchment and a quill, swiftly taking down notes of whose debt George Spencer was in, and how much he owed. And though she searched thoroughly, there was nothing in the desk—like a book of ledgers or accounts—to indicate the expanse of his income, or just how and when he was intending to pay off these sums. Well, perhaps Cromwell would know; he said he had ties to the bankers. She'd have to talk to him, anyway, to see what she could do with this information she'd just gleaned... that is, if she could gloss over the getting of it.

Once she'd gone over every leaf of paper in the portable desk, she piled them back in as haphazardly as she found them and re-locked the whole thing before shoving it back under the bed where she found it and replacing the keys in the satchel. By then, her notes were dry, and she folded the paper up and tucked it safely into her doublet. She took one last prowl around the room, searching for anything she had missed which could be used in court. There wasn't much—most of the best information had been in the portable desk... although she did now suspect that Spencer might also have the pox, if the medicines in with the keys were any indication. That wasn't exactly admissible evidence in court, although it did cast aspirations on his fitness as a guardian. Perhaps Master Cromwell would have some idea about how to turn that into something she could use in court—how fortuitous that she was to see him on Sunday!

Clara blew out her candle, replacing it on the stand she'd taken it from, and went back to the window. She cracked open the shutters and peered out over the yard. Getting down would be a much more interesting proposition than getting in... unless she could use the door? Admittedly, that would probably indicate to Spencer that someone had been in his room, and she wasn't sure what she looked like, now that she'd been rolling around on a thatched roof, or whether or not she'd be able to leave the inn unnoticed (what if she had thatch in her hose, or some other sign that she had been rolling around on the roof?)... but at least she wouldn't be in danger of breaking her neck from a fall.

Doing an about face, Clara moved back across the room towards the door, placing her feet carefully. But before she could reach the door, the sound of footfalls coming her way made her freeze again—especially since they were accompanied by feminine giggles and a familiar, masculine voice. George Spencer, it seemed, was coming back to his room... and there was little question as to why.

Right. Out the window it was.

God must have had His hand on her, for not only did Clara make it out the window and back onto the kitchen roof before Spencer and his paramour entered the room, she also managed to close the shutters behind her and roll down onto the sloping side of the roof without being noticed (as far as she knew, anyway) or breaking any bones.

Now she just had to get off the roof.

That was no easy task, especially considering how hard it had been to get up onto the roof in the first place. She tried first going down the way she'd gone up—i.e. via the barrels at the back of the kitchen—but it soon became apparent that Clara wasn't tall enough. Even lying flat on her stomach, her legs still could not reach the barrels, though she craned her back and tried. There was a moment when she thought the toe of her boot might've brushed the barrel, but she when she tried to stretch her leg to touch it again, she nearly lost her grip and fell.

Heart pounding once more, Clara abandoned her attempts and crawled back onto the thatch, flopping over onto her back and staring up at the dark sky. As she caught her breath and calmed down, her mind began to mull over other ways to get back on the ground. Meanwhile, her body was screaming at her for using it in such new and strenuous ways. In all likelihood, she was going to be so sore tomorrow she'd scarce be able to get out of bed.

Provided she ever got off the roof, anyway.

Reasoning that she was just going to have to stiffen her spine and get off the building by any means necessary, and reasoning that a two- or three-foot drop to the ground was better than a five- or six-foot one, Clara rolled over onto her stomach, took a deep breath, and wriggled back towards the edge of the roof. She slowly began to lower herself feet-first off the roof, using her hands (which by now were getting quite sore) to anchor herself in the thatch as her feet dangled in the air, preparing to let go as soon as she felt her feet were as close to the ground as she could get them. The muscles in her arms were in agony as she clung to the roof, elbows bent... and then her arms abruptly gave way. Her hands weren't able to hold her weight, and she dropped the remaining distance to the ground.

She struck the hard earth an instant later; her knees buckled and her legs gave way, and Clara fell backwards, landing on her back. The impact knocked the breath from her body and banged her head against the ground. Gasping and aching, she lay there in the dirt for a few minutes, reeling from the physical exertion and the pains in her limbs. She eventually realised that her hat had fallen off, and her long hair was visible to any who should wander by to see. Hissing in agony, Clara rolled over and grabbed the hat, jamming it back on her head over her hair before painfully dragging herself to her feet. Her legs and hips were throbbing, her arms and shoulders ached, and her hands were stinging; all in all, it felt rather like she'd been pounded on with hammers.

Limping and making more noise than she was generally comfortable with doing, Clara made her way back towards the gate, ready to leave the inn altogether and go back to bed. She trailed after a throng of well-dressed young men—guests at the inn apparently bound for the stews of Southwark—as they boisterously made their way out of the inn's courtyard and into the streets, using their departure as cover for her own.

As they all spilled out onto The Strand, the men turned south towards the river, while Clara turned her feet eastwards, focussed on the swiftest route back to Whitefriars and how long it would take her to get back to Lord Sedley's house, more aware of the blooming aches in her body than her surroundings... which was why she had not noticed the backwards glances the youths in the group had been casting at her. She had also rather forgotten how she was dressed, otherwise she might have reacted to the increasingly louder calls of "Boy!" and realised that they could be directed at her.

She definitely noticed when a large hand clamped down on her shoulder and spun her around, though.

Clara blinked in surprise and then glanced up into the florid face of the man gripping her arm. He had greasy fairish hair, and his pale eyes were bleary and reddened. "Are you deaf, boy?" he demanded harshly, and the odour of wine on his breath was nearly overpowering.

"Sir?" she asked tremulously, suddenly aware that she was surrounded by a throng of young men, all of whom were eyeing her with anything from amusement to anger.

A shiver of fear lanced down her spine.

"Why do you follow us, boy?" the man holding her demanded, giving her a little shake. "This is an outing for men, not for womanish little boys, and you weren't invited. Think you're big enough to trail along?"

"No, my lord," Clara replied quickly, shaking her head. Why had they called her womanish—did they know?

"Then why do you follow, stripling?" her captor roared, and she could feel flecks of his saliva land on her face, making her cringe. She wanted to wipe them away, but the man had her arms so tightly she couldn't reach up to her face.

Clara could feel her heart pounding underneath her men's clothing. What was going on? Why were they angry with her? What were these men going to do to her? "I don't!" she protested. "I... we were but walking the same way. I swear, I didn't mean to follow you. I don't even know where you're going!"

"Don't even know where we're going!" the man holding her repeated. "What, boy, are you a monk? Or just too young?"

That caused a raucous chorus of laughter in the group around them, and Clara could feel their hands reaching out to jostle her where she stood as her cheeks went pink. Another man called from behind her, "We'd better bring him along then, Dick—educate the poor boy. Look, the lad's blushing!"

The other men laughed, but the one holding her—Dick, was it?—did not look amused. "He's not going anywhere with us," he growled. "You really want a stinking spy sneaking along? Spy," he spat venomously, turning back to Clara. "Did he send you? Or did she? God's blood, would they have me locked in a prison?"

"What? No! I don't even know of whom you speak!" she cried, trying to pull herself out of his grip. "I just want to go home. I pray you, let me pass."

Dick sneered, and then let her go with a shove. Clara stumbled a little—and then, before she could even straighten or steady herself, the man swung. The left side of her mouth exploded into agony, and Clara was knocked onto her hands and knees. A coppery, salty taste flooded onto her tongue, in time with the sensation of something wet wending its way down her chin. Blood... it was blood—he'd made her bleed! Confused and frightened and even a little angry, she pushed herself off the ground and staggered to her feet.

"That's for following—and there'll be more of that if I lay eyes on you again!" Dick threatened, brandishing his fist.

Before she could consider all the implications of her actions, Clara spat blood right into his face with a curse. "Dizzy-eyed scut!"

In retrospect, that was not the best idea.

Dick stepped forward with a roar and swung at her again. This time, Clara managed to duck, and his punch connected with one of his companions, who had been standing behind Clara. She thanked God that the hit hadn't connected—especially since the victim was knocked nearly off his feet, lurching heavily into the man next to him. The man who'd taken the punch meant for Clara immediately straightened, and, with a shouted oath at Dick, swung at the other man.

Things went downhill from there; the two men descended into a fight, punching and shoving each other. The rest of the men around them quickly took sides and waded into the fray, and all the while Dick sought Clara. Everything descended into a brawl within moments... and Clara Tyrell was right in the middle of it.

Men kept shoving her, with some trying to get her nearer to Dick and others just wanting her out of the way. She was struck in the side by a fist; and, upon bending reflexively around the site of what would probably become a massive bruise, was struck in the eye by the flailing elbow of the man fighting Dick. The pain was so intense that Clara fell to her knees, but there was no respite there. Men were tripping over her and inadvertently kicking her... she had to get out of her.

Fuelled by a desperation and a resolve which Clara had never before felt, she mastered the pain and stood, dodging around the fighting, flailing men and making a beeline for the edge of the throng and the freedom of the road beyond. When a strong hand clamped down on her arm and nearly pulled her off her feet, Clara reacted without thinking. Forming a fist, she turned and struck backwards at whoever held her—Dick, as it turned out: the instigator of the whole thing. Her punch connected with the side of his neck; Dick immediately gagged and let her go. Agony exploded in her hand, but it was ignored. Without further ado, she bolted.

She ran until she could scarcely breathe, until a sharp pain in her side made her stop. Pausing in the shadow of a building, Clara bent double, resting her elbow on her thighs, panting heavily and feeling like a walking ache. God in Heaven, every single part of her hurt.

Suddenly, the utter absurdity of it all struck her, and she collapsed against the wall of the building behind her, wheezing with laugher she could not suppress. She laughed until she started crying, clutching at her aching ribs, feeling her split lip reopen and spill more blood into her mouth and down her face, mingling with the tears that streaked down her cheeks.

Clara wasn't sure how long she sat in the dirt, but eventually she calmed down and realised that if she didn't stand up and get moving she wouldn't have the strength or the will to make it back to the house. Spending the night on the street was not high on her list of priorities, so, calling on inner reserves of strength she wasn't even sure she had, she hauled herself to her feet and staggered on.

Ben had promised to leave the garden gate unlocked for her, and Clara praised God as she passed through it. She couldn't imagine how she'd get inside otherwise. Climbing the stairs up to her chamber was a trial of endurance, given the pain in her joints due to her rough landing from The Bell's kitchen roof, but she made it up, and limped towards her chambers, trying to keep her footsteps silent in deference to the sleeping occupants.

Once she was ensconced back in her rooms, Clara lit the candles herself and carefully removed her notes from her doublet, tucking them safely and reverently into her folio. Then she began to shed her clothing, wincing in pain as she bent and twisted and sighing ruefully as she got a look at the clothes she shed. It was a good thing that Sir Thomas More and Master Cromwell had shown themselves willing to lend her books, because she was going to owe her brother so much money for the ruined clothes that she probably wouldn't be able to buy new books until Michaelmas next. The hose were torn and dirty, the shirt and doublet stained with blood, and the lot of it caked with dirt and dust.

Naked and shivering, Clara hobbled over to the washstand; though both the water and the air were cold, she just wanted to get the blood and dirt off her before she went to sleep. Dipping a cloth into the water, she carefully began to dab the dried blood from her face, flinching as she touched the hot, sensitive skin. She didn't want to know what her face was going to look like tomorrow. Her right hand—the one she'd used to punch her last assailant—was also red and slightly swollen, and the cold water felt good around the appendage as she immersed it in the basin.

By the time she was finished washing, her fingertips were nearly blue and she was quaking with cold. Getting into her nightshift was also a trial—her shoulders were stiff and ached fiercely, and her ribs were still throbbing, rendering it very difficult to twist and turn. But finally she was dressed for sleep, and able to fall—literally—into bed, where exhaustion claimed her.

* * *

_29 November, 1528_

Clara's exhaustion was so complete that she slept long, not waking until mid-morning when the dull grey light of an English November was already skulking through the window. And when she woke, she felt just as bad as, if not worse than, she'd predicted she would. Her muscles were burning, her joints aching, her hands and shins stinging, her face and ribs throbbing and her left eye and her lower lip swelling and painful... and movement—such as trying to get out of bed—made agony flare all over her body.

_I think I will stay in bed today_, she decided.

Of course, that resolution lasted as long as it took for Clara to get bored (which was about a half an hour). So she amended her plans to staying in her chambers and not getting dressed—the very idea of tightly-laced stays made her shudder inwardly. Forcing herself out of bed was not pleasant in the least, and walking over to her trunk was not exactly enjoyable, either—her legs were not happy about yesterday's usage, and each joint protested loudly as she crossed the room, while her shoulders and arms protested as she donned a robe.

A glance in her mirror made her cringe; her left eye was swelling and turning purple, as was the area around the cut on her lip where the first punch of the evening had landed. She was going to have to avoid people for a couple of days—that, or see if Agnes had a veil she could borrow. Otherwise she would draw a lot of questions that she couldn't answer.

Sighing, she headed for the closet, intending to rewrite the notes she took last night in a more organised way. It wasn't until she was seated at the table with her portable desk (much more organised than Spencer's), her papers before her and a quill in her hand, that Clara paused. Punching that man (Dick was his name, wasn't it?) last night had not been good for her hand—she could barely grip the quill. Clearly, rewriting her notes was going to have to wait.

Feeling both peevish and sheepish, she covered her face as best she could with her hair and a wrap, and rang for a servant. While trying to keep herself hidden, she talked to the maid and requested that she bring her meals up to her. She toyed with the idea of telling the maid to tell Agnes and Marion that Lady Tyrell was ill and wanted to be left alone, but Clara knew her friends would barge in anyway. She wasn't sure what to tell them. She didn't want to tell them the truth... but she was a horrible liar, and anyway, the truth was also writ across her face in bruise-purple ink.

Resigning herself to dealing with overwrought friends and family later today, Clara picked up the book Master Cromwell had leant her and settled down to read. She wagered inwardly that Marion would be knocking on her door within the next ten minutes, and that Agnes would follow within the hour.

In fact, Marion was knocking on the door within the next five minutes, and both Benedict and Agnes were with her. Clara wanted to hide her face in her hands, except that would involve touching her bruises, and frankly they were quite painful. Instead, she sighed, marked her place in her book with a bit of ribbon, moved to look out the window so they would not see her blackened eye and split, swollen lip immediately, and then called for them to come in.

Agnes, as the lady of the household, was the first one in the door; Clara could hear the quick lightness of her steps and the rich swish of her skirts (velvet today, unless she was mistaken; it had a distinctive sound). Benedict was behind her with his softer steps, trained into him by years in the household of Sir John and Lady Mary Gage. Marion came last, and her anger about the precedence of the household was audible in the sharp heaviness of her tread—it was nearly stomping.

"You slept late this morning, Clara," Marion began immediately. If she had to be last into her sister-in-law's room, she would be the first to speak. "Last night must have been tiring."

"It was," Clara replied wryly. Then she changed the subject, hoping to stave off the inevitable revelation for at least a little longer. "Do you think we shall see the sun today? It looks as though the clouds are giving way. I do hope so—it has been long since we saw the sun."

"Clara!" Agnes protested. "We've been in an agony of curiosity—we don't want to talk about the weather! What on earth were you doing last night? When did you return? It must have been late indeed, for we had all gone to bed."

"I think it was late," Clara agreed. Her ears pricked as her brother took a couple steps forward, and she steeled herself for what would come hence..

Benedict placed a hand on her shoulder and gently turned her away from the window. Clara looked up at him with a rueful expression on her battered face, and he sucked in a breath. "Sweet Jesus," he swore. "By God's body, Clara, what happened to you?"

Naturally, Marion and Agnes had to hurry over and see what Ben was talking about after a statement like that. Clara sighed, and allowed her friends to tilt her face this way and that, horrified by the state of their friend's face.

"Oh, Clara..." Marion breathed, reaching out a hand to touch the swollen, reddish-purple skin around the cut on Clara's lip. Though she was gentle, Clara still winced at the pain.

"Now you really must tell us what you were doing," Agnes said, looking between Ben and Clara.

Marion nodded her agreement, her lovely face pinched with anger. "You must tell us who would dare do this to you," she agreed fiercely.

"Maybe I just fell down some stairs," Clara said weakly, ducking her head.

"Did you?" Agnes asked flatly, arching a brow.

"Well, no," Clara admitted. "But I might've."

"You'll want to put something cold on your face, Clare," Ben advised, helpfully changing the subject away from the source of her injuries but warning her with a flick of his eyebrows and a tilt of his head that they would be revisiting the subject later, in private. Which was fine with her; she'd already confided in her brother, and at least she could trust him not to have a hysterical reaction or be indiscreet with her secrets... of which there recently seemed to be quite a lot. "Maybe a slab of beef or a cold cloth. That's what I was always advised to do whenever I had bruises from jousting."

"Beef?" Clara repeated, echoed by Agnes as well.

"That's what they always told me," Ben replied defensively.

Clara considered the matter. "Does it work?"

"...It doesn't not work," Ben said after a moment.

They all considered that. Clara had a mental image of herself, lying in bed with a hunk of beef over her face. It wasn't very appealing.

"I think we'll try the cold cloth first," Agnes decided, her mind having apparently gone to similar places, "before I start sending for tomorrow's supper to put on your face."

"Agreed," said Clara.

"Now," Marion said, inserting herself into the conversation and bringing it right back to where Ben and Clara had been trying to lead away from, "tell us how on earth your errand last night left you with such injuries. What, by the Virgin, were you doing? I knew you shouldn't have gone alone, I should have accompanied you," she fretted, tilting Clara's chin back and forth to get a better look at her bruises.

"She'll be fine in a week or so, Mistress Marion," Ben said, correctly interpreting the mulish set to Clara's jaw as a sign that she was getting annoyed.

"This isn't the first time I've had bruises," Clara concurred, stepping away from her sister-in-law. "Admittedly, it's the first time I acquired said bruises in the manner I did, but a bruise is a bruise, and I know that mine will be gone in a matter of weeks. Please, don't fret."

"What manner?" Marion pressed, worrying at the issue like a dog with a bone, wilfully ignoring the signs that Clara did not want to talk about it.

"We really do wish to know—do you not trust us?" Agnes added, making her eyes large and dewy as she adopted an expression of distress. It was an old trick of hers, and often worked to get her what she wanted... however, Clara was both wise to it and immune to Agnes' charms.

"I trust you," she replied, lowly and evenly, "but some things need to be kept secret." And sometimes her friends didn't understand that.

Though Clara was a gossip, and often knew more than she ought to about the private lives of others, she understood that some things should not be bandied around, because if they were generally known they could and would ruin the lives of more than one person. She'd learned that long ago, when a question put to a maid by an eight-year-old Clara had led to a Franciscan friar being whipped out of town and thereafter destroyed the prospects of a yeoman's daughter, who later died in mysterious circumstances. After seeing the affects of her indiscretion, from then on Clara kept the important secrets.

Often times her friends would press and press to be told something—had so-and-so really left London due to illness? Was such-and-such really the child of the priest? What had really happened between Master X and Mistress Y?—but Clara never gave in, saying only that some things needed to be kept secret. Sarah and Elizabeth were always the best at sensing when Clara would go no further, and they would usually rein in Agnes and Rosamond (who were much more curious). Both of them were dead, however, and Marion was even worse than Rosa (perhaps because Marion was Clara's senior, while Rosamond had been her junior). As such, the two blondes kept pushing.

"We are your family and friends!" Marion protested.

"We can keep secrets, you know we can," Agnes added, though a little less fervently—perhaps she was recalling those prior instances when Clara dug in her heels, and sensing that this was just such an occasion.

Marion nodded, heedless of how close her sister was to the end of her rope. "Clara, you must—"

"No!" Clara snapped, finally losing patience. "I must do nothing! God's blood, am I allowed no privacy?"

Marion drew back, looking wounded, as did Agnes, who also stepped closer to Ben, looking plaintively up at him. Ben was unsympathetic, and just shrugged while murmuring mildly, "She said no, didn't she?"

"Clara, we only—" Marion began, her voice and gestures placating.

"Well don't," Clara spat angrily, feeling her vehement words make the sensitive bruises on her face throb. She was too livid to care, though. "I said no, and I meant it. I let you have your secrets—why won't you let me have mine? And if you mean to keep pressing me about those things about which I will not speak, then you can get out!" she added in a shout, pointing at the door.

"I only want to take care of you," Marion whispered, looking as though Clara had struck her.

"I'm not a child, Marion. I can take care of myself. If I require help, I will ask for it, and if I want you to know something, I will tell you," Clara replied severely. She knew she would likely feel bad about her harshness later, but this needed to be said. "You are my sister, not my mother, and some things you have no right to ask. Now please, leave me. Benedict and I need to talk."

Marion immediately turned and fled. Agnes paused at the doorway, turning back with a quiet, "I'm sorry, Clara." Then she slipped out into the hallway in a flurry of green velvet and shut the door behind her.

* * *

_30 November, 1528_

Master Cromwell and Lady Tyrell had agreed to meet near the market cross in Shoreditch around sundown, and proceed thence to the cellar where the sermon would be preached. Cromwell, more familiar with the area and having less distance to travel, arrived first, and stood in the shadow of a public house, watching the sun sink below the London rooftops as he waited, and mentally running over the next day's business. He kept his eyes focussed mostly on the western side of the square, from whence he imagined Lady Tyrell would be coming, and within a quarter-hour saw a veiled woman with a folio under her arm enter the square.

Thomas fought back a smile as he stepped forth, guessing that this was Clara, and waved her over. His guess was verified when the veiled woman immediately turned her steps in his direction. He couldn't help but notice that she was limping slightly and moving as though she was stiff, and wondered at the cause. "Good evening, Lady Tyrell," he greeted softly.

"Master Cromwell," she murmured in return.

Without further ado, he took her folio and tucked it under his own arm (was she always so obsessed with business that she would carry her folio everywhere? Not that he was one to talk, admittedly), and they set off for Cheapside. "You know," he remarked dryly as they walked along the street, "concealing your face draws more attention than it deters. The circle which we are attending is trustworthy; there is no need to hide your identity—no one will ask questions."

"That's not why I'm wearing a veil," Clara replied, and Thomas could still see through the sheer material enough to notice that she was giving him a bit of a scowl. "I don't want anyone seeing my face."

"That is the usual reason for wearing a veil," Thomas agreed solemnly.

He had come to realise that Clara laughed with her shoulders, as silently as she could, and looked forward to seeing the quiver in her slender body as she redirected her mirth; it amused him to watch it. Sure enough, there went the shiver up her spine—but then it stopped abruptly as it reached her shoulders. He heard her sharp intake of breath and she pressed a hand to her side, as though she had a pain.

A sudden suspicion bloomed in his mind—the stiffness, the limping, the veil, the cringe... he'd seen these signs before. And yet, she was an independent woman, wasn't she? Who would dare? Thomas resolved to keep a sharp eye on her, and see if he might not subtly pry from her the source of her pain. If he was right, this was not a subject which Clara would be willing to treat with her usual frankness, and he would neither insult her nor distress her with a blunt inquiry regarding the same.

"There's a different reason I don't want people seeing my face," she told him, and her voice held the tenseness of fading pain. "Truthfully, it has more to do with vanity than trust."

Thomas felt a coldness somewhere in his chest. If she wasn't veiled due to a desire to keep secret her identity... if it was vanity... if she was wincing in pain... he needed to see her face. And then, if he was right... then he'd coax her into telling him who had dared harm her, and do all in his power to make them rue the day they laid eyes on her.

Even if it was someone close to her. It always was, wasn't it?

He treated her gently as he helped her down into the cellar—she leaned heavily on his arm and moved stiffly down the stairs, and Thomas wondered what had happened to poor Clara to rob her of her quiet grace. Or rather, who had happened, and what he might do to the man responsible.

They took seats near the back of the room and settled in to wait. "Are you still coming on Tuesday?" he inquired softly, bending his head slightly towards hers, making the brim of his hat brush against the material of her veil.

"Yes. Arthur is very excited to see a new place, and meet new people," Clara replied, just as softly, reaching up to flick the brim of the encroaching hat. "Especially once I told him that your nephew jousts."

"Alice and Joan are looking forward to seeing him, as well," Thomas remarked. "I'm sure they'll cosset the poor lad nearly to death."

There went her quivering laugh, punctuated by another hiss of pain. "Oh, don't make me laugh, it hurts," she entreated him breathlessly.

"My apologies," he said, tamping down the urge to spirit her away to Austin Friars and throttle whoever it was who had harmed her—an urge which he found rather surprising. It was surprising, how protective he felt of a woman he'd not even known for three weeks. Thomas, after considering the matter for a moment, supposed it was because Clara was such a sweet little innocent and reminded him a little of his late sisters, whom he had been unable to protect. Besides, she was useful to him (or she would be, one day), and as such he needed to ensure she was safe and healthy. She'd be no good to him battered or frightened or dead.

The preacher this evening was Master Parker, who was recently come from Germany, and who was much more easy-going than his counterpart Master Chowne—which might, he allowed, be for the best. Chowne's ranting, eloquent though it was, might thoroughly shock the more reticent Clara. Parker, though a fervent believer, was considerably more quiet and restrained, preaching a curiously apropos sermon (given who was here with him) this night about truth—the truth of the Gospels, which the Catholic Church would be unable to hide forever, and how they, as true believers, had a duty to live virtuous lives as a testament of the truth to which they all adhered. Lies were the province of the devil, and ran rife in that bastion of wickedness, the Catholic Church; by contrast, they would dwell solely in the realms of truth, and let no falsehoods taint them.

Though he of course paid attention to the preacher and his words, Thomas also kept a watch on Clara, sitting quietly beside him. She was a rapt listener—he could see her profile through the veil's material, and it was plain that all her attention was focussed on the man speaking at the centre of the room. Occasionally, he heard a soft whisper of "amen" whenever Parker said something with which she agreed. But he also noticed that her shoulders hunched more inward as the sermon progressed, and that she had knotted her hands in her lap; he could also just see through the veil the way she bit at the uninjured corner of her lip, and he pretended not to notice the sideways glances she was giving him. Something, Thomas surmised, was on Clara's mind. Something about truth.

At the end of the meeting, when they all knelt in prayer, his eyes caught sight of Clara's wincing and heard her soft hisses of pain as she knelt beside him. After the prayer was finished, he wordlessly offered her a hand up. That inspired another round of winces and hisses as she used him as leverage to get to her feet, nearly staggering and pressing a hand to her hip.

"I'm too young to feel this old," she muttered blackly.

That made him smile, and at her request he led her through the crowd to pay her compliments to Master Parker. Thomas remained at her side as he watched her charm the preacher in front of them, and he subtly eyed the people around them, who were subtly eyeing them in turn. Perhaps it was a good thing Clara was veiled this evening—he'd be willing to bet that soon enough there'd be gossip scurrying around through London that Master Cromwell had a mistress. Not that he thought any of this circle would circulate such rumours (he hadn't been lying to Clara when he told her the group was trustworthy), but if they were listening to what was already there...

By the time they left the cellar and turned their steps back to Austin Friars, the sun was already set. Clara's folio was still tucked under Thomas' arm—a good thing, since the veil over the woman's face was having an adverse affect on her gait.

She just kept tripping.

There was the hole in the street that she hadn't seen, which had sent her staggering into his side. There was the heap of... something... that she hadn't seen, which she'd slipped in and which nearly laid her flat on her back. There was a raised cobble that she hadn't seen, and only Thomas' quick reflexes kept her from tumbling face-first into the muddy street.

"Perhaps," Thomas commented tightly as he hauled her back upright, "you might consider removing the veil?" Clara hesitated, making no move to remove herself from his grasp, looking down at the ground and brushing awkwardly at her skirts. "It's dark enough that few will be able to identify you, if that is what makes you hesitate."

"It's not." She remained still for another moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "Well, if I'm already going to tell you the truth..." she murmured to herself, before lifting the veil and quickly turning her face away, tugging her arm out of his gentle grip and walking briskly away. "Shall we continue on, then? There is still some business upon which I would like your advice."

Thomas took three long strides and caught her hand, pulling her to a stop and turning her to face him. Even in the darkness, lit only by the torches from a nearby public house, he could still see the dark swelling around her right eye and the similar bruising at the left of her pretty lips. "God's blood," he swore. She looked... well, she looked like she'd been struck in the face. She looked like Kat and Bet and he had when they'd said the wrong thing to Walter. "Clara, what happened to you?"

Clara smiled ruefully. "It's a bit of a long story—which I will tell you when we get back to your house," she promised, when he showed no signs of letting go of her. Mostly because he couldn't force himself to release her, if this was the kind of thing that happened when she was on her own. "And it's not what you think it is," she added, apparently interpreting his facial expression correctly.

Thomas rearranged his face, tucking his feelings back behind his mask, chiding himself for his lack of control. This was an issue that touched close to his heart, but that was no reason to wear his feelings out on his sleeve. "Then let us continue on—hopefully with fewer interruptions—so that I might hear it," he said with a smirk, gesturing onwards.

"No sauce from you, Master Cromwell," Clara grumbled, tossing her head (and her veil) haughtily.

* * *

When they arrived at Austin Friars, Clara pulled her veil back over her face. "No sense in alarming your staff," she'd said.

Thomas sent her up to his study, handing her folio back, and sent Richard, who had come out to meet them, for the bruise-balm he used whenever he took a fall. "Don't ask," he advised his nephew when Richard gave him a quizzical look.

In the study, someone had already lit the candles, and Clara was (to absolutely no surprise) standing in front of his bookshelves, though she turned to meet him as he entered the room. Her black eye and swollen lip looked even worse here than they had in the street... probably because he could now see them. Since she'd also removed her gloves, he could also see that the knuckles of her right hand were also swollen and split. By the blood of Christ, it looked like she'd been in a fight. "Don't you look a sight, Lady Clara?" he commented with a shake of his head as he beckoned her away from his bookshelves and into a chair. "Now, I believe you have a story to tell me?"

"What's that?" she asked instead, nodding at the jar in his hands.

She was avoiding the issue, but he allowed it. "For your bruises. Richard uses it whenever he takes a fall in a joust," Thomas replied, handing it over. "Dab a little on your eye and your lip, and it should help it heal."

"Thank you." She did as directed, delicately applying the salve to her skin with slender fingers. Then she looked up at him and bit the corner of her lip nervously. Thomas did his best to look nonthreatening. "I... have come into some information in regards to George Spencer, and I... am not certain how best to use it," she began hesitantly.

"What kind of information?" Thomas inquired, steepling his fingers together under his chin.

"Information about his finances... and his debts. Which are extensive," Clara admitted quietly. She reached out for her folio and flipped it open, withdrawing a wrinkled piece of paper covered with messy handwriting. "Read this," she bid him quietly, tapping the paper with a finger.

Thomas did, and he could feel his eyebrows climbing higher and higher on his face as he deciphered and digested the words and the numbers on the page. George Spencer, it seemed, was racking up debts that would be surprising in a man with twice his income. If it became plain that this kind of spending was usual, and that Spencer's lands were poorly maintained due to his extravagance, and that he would do to the same to the Tyrell holdings should he have control of them... then this would indeed sway the judges in young Arthur's case. They would not willingly let Spencer have control of such large lands and the heir to them if he would only ruin them.

"How did you get this information?" he wondered, looking up from the page. Clara went beet-red, and he felt his curiosity ignite. "Clara?"

"Er," she said, ducking her head to hide her flaming cheeks. "Well. I might've..." and she trailed off into a mumble.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Master Cromwell, do you... can you... that is to say, please don't repeat—to anyone—what it is I'm going to tell you," Clara entreated, looking beseechingly up at him. Something occurred to her, and it immediately showed on her face, which immediately adopted an expression of worried wariness. "You can't arrest me, can you?"

That made him sit up straight, and turn a piercing stare onto the woman before him. "Arrest you?" he repeated, not bothering to answer that he couldn't arrest her, but he could certainly have her arrested, because he had no intentions of doing either. "God's wounds, woman, what have you been up to?"

"I might've been breaking into George Spencer's rooms at The Bell and digging through his private papers," Clara confessed in a very small voice. "And I might've fallen off the kitchen roof after, which is why I'm all sore... and I might've been dressed like a man while I did this, and perhaps I might've... started a brawl, which is why I've got..." she gestured to her face. Then she looked down at her hand, and rubbed her right one, frowning a little. "Punching people hurts."

Thomas just stared at her, aware that his mouth was hanging open. He blinked a few times, trying to reconcile what he'd just been told with what he knew of Clara Tyrell.

Then he started laughing.

He couldn't help himself; he laughed loud and long, clutching his stomach, until tears were gathering in the corner of his eyes. The idea of Lady Clara Tyrell—meek, quiet, sweet little Clara—dressing up like a man to break into an inn and thereafter getting into a fistfight was ludicrous. And yet, it had apparently happened. This mousey young woman, for the love of her only son, had done something of which he—and possibly she as well—had believed her utterly incapable.

Perhaps the idea of Clara as his agent was not so impossible after all.

It suddenly seemed like a door that had previously been locked was now swinging open. She'd proved herself now, hadn't she? Proved herself able and willing to do whatever it took to get the information she wanted? With a little bit of training and perhaps a bit of persuasion, her future as one of his agents was almost assured. Especially since she had just presented him with plenty of sensitive information to use as leverage. Clara had broken the law, after all, and informed him plainly of it. If ever he needed to make her obey, he had the tool with which to do it.

She would never escape him. Clara Tyrell had just placed herself entirely in his hands.

Hopefully, however, it would never come to anything so graceless and blunt as blackmail. Hopefully, Clara would willingly do as he asked. She certainly seemed worried about his feelings now, watching him laugh with a nervous, tentative expression on her bruised face; it was plain that she had no ideas about the ramifications of her confession. Thomas tried to restrain his amusement, and his triumph. "Excuse me," he said, taking a deep breath and composing himself. "I merely... Clara, you are a marvel."

It was true—he'd never known a woman like her before. She surprised him, and she kept surprising him. Every time he thought he had her pinned down, she'd reveal a new facet of herself and surprise him anew. Underneath the meekness was a bright spark; underneath the shyness was a keen intelligence; underneath the honesty and the virtue was a startling streak of ruthlessness. Clara, Thomas was beginning to understand, would do anything to keep her son. Now, he needed to find a way to channel that ruthlessness in other directions as well. (That would likely be a very challenging prospect; her son was one thing, but English foreign policy was something else.)

She sat there quietly, sweetly, blushing—her cheeks were rosy, her smile was shy, and she looked coyly up at him through her eyelashes. Future intentions to make her useful aside, Thomas realised he'd been... well, rather flirtatious. And strangely, he didn't mind. It was apparently an evening of great surprises, because he was again surprised—surprised at just how much he didn't mind flirting with Clara, and how much he liked seeing that blush on her cheeks, and that shy little smile on her lips. He wouldn't mind seeing more of it, of seeing her look at him like that—like a woman looks at a man she desires.

They gazed at each other silently, grey eyes locked on brown, for a long moment. There was a tension between them, which seemed strung as tightly as a bowstring. She seemed oblivious to its source, though she clearly felt it, confusion writ in a slight furrow across her brow. Thomas, however, knew it for what it was: a nascent attraction.

Clara was the first to break the moment and release the tension, knotting her hands in her skirt and looking away, discomfort and uncertainty writ in every line of her body. Too soon, Thomas surmised. After all, while he'd been a widower for more than a year now, Sir Robert Tyrell had not yet been dead for six months, and to all appearances his wife had loved him very much.

Unwilling to frighten her away (and making a mental note not to use the attraction between them as a tie to bind her to Cromwell interests) Thomas sat back in his chair and pretended the last few minutes hadn't happened. "You surprise me, Clara. Dressing up like a man, climbing through windows to rifle through secret papers, starting fights... I hadn't thought you had it in you," he remarked, not bothering to conceal his amusement. "And I think I like you better for it. One of these days, I'll have to teach you to throw a proper punch so that—" pointing at her swollen right hand, "won't happen again."

Clara was grinning now, though it was plain she was still a little uneasy. "I'm glad you... approve?" She tried the word tentatively, and relaxed still further when he kept smiling at her. "I'm so very glad. I desperately need your advice—I have this information, but how do I use it?—and I couldn't imagine telling anyone else about it," she confessed. "Especially not Thomas More. Which is funny, I suppose."

The warmth which she'd been stoking inside his heart seemed suddenly to cool the moment she mentioned Thomas More. "Why is that funny?" Thomas wondered, making sure none of his defensiveness was audible in his voice. Why was it funny that she should seek him out, rather than More? Did she prefer that Thomas? Apparently her family did. Thomas usually didn't care about being compared to Thomas More, but in this instance, with this woman... it annoyed him.

"It's just... well, even my family has noticed that... before, I always used to go to Thomas More when I needed advice or had any questions," she explained haltingly. "But now I go to you. They all find it very strange, because only Ben knows that you agreed to help me with... everything. But I... well, I couldn't imagine telling this to Thomas More. If he didn't have me arrested, I know he'd think less of me for it. He always thinks less of me," she added quietly, almost to herself.

Something unpleasant occurred to him. "Are you in love with him?" Thomas asked bluntly, narrowing his eyes.

Clara startled, and jerked her head up to stare at him incredulously. "No!" she protested. "No, of course I'm not in love with him! In love with Thomas More, indeed! What, in God's name, could ever make you think such a thing?"

Thomas allowed one eyebrow to quirk slightly upwards. She was protesting quite a bit, wasn't she? "You do maintain an intimacy with the family which seems rather foolhardy, given your religious sentiments and your... ah, difficulties with concealment," was all he said. "Why else would you court danger in such a manner, if not for love?"

"Lots of reasons!" Clara said indignantly. "There's friendship and admiration and... and curiosity and... lots of reasons other than love—because I don't love Sir Thomas!" Thomas Cromwell was not convinced, and let his scepticism show on his face. She scowled fiercely at him, though it was a lopsided sort of scowl due to the bruises. "I don't want to marry him, I just want to be him. Or be like him. And be liked by him, and I... I don't know," she admitted, sounding confused and lost. But then she rallied, finishing sternly, "But I don't love him."

He wasn't convinced, but let it rest. Though it bothered him to think of Clara in love with Thomas More (telling himself that it wouldn't do to have one of his agents emotionally tied elsewhere, to one who might oppose Cromwell interests), it didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. She might love More (and she might not; she didn't seem certain about her feelings in any case), but she was also afraid of him. Furthermore, More was married, and both he and Clara were extremely moral people and would never dream of committing adultery. Also, Clara must surely know that she could never be truly open with More. Whatever feelings were (or, according to Clara, weren't) there, they would never be acted upon.

Besides, if there was to be one Thomas to whom Clara was tied, it was going to be Thomas Cromwell. Thomas More would let her talent for espionage go utterly to waste—he'd probably never even noticed Clara's abilities, or thought to put them to use. Thomas More could never appreciate the quiet depths of practicality and expedience below the lady's honesty and sweetness, which were only displayed when needful. Thomas More would never accept her belief in the true religion; he'd see her burned for her faith, and what a waste that would be. Thomas Cromwell, however, could see, appreciate, and even nourish these things—he deserved to have her. And he would, as well; between the ties already linking the two of them, the potential blackmail Clara had cheerfully handed him, their budding friendship, and that spark of a deeper attraction... what did Thomas More have to compare? Some confused emotions?

No. Clara was his.

"As you say," he demurred, waving the matter away. "Now, you've acquired some very useful information. Let me see if some of my contacts in the city can confirm what you have here, so you can present it in court without fear. That should cast some doubt on Spencer's suitability as a guardian."

Clara nodded, and Thomas went on, "I might even be able to get some of the banks to call in the loans, which would certainly put a good deal of pressure on Master Spencer. It is possible that we may be able to prevail on him to withdraw his petition for your son's wardship, but—" he added pointedly, when Clara's battered face lit up, "you may have do something in return you won't like."

"I won't like giving that... man my only son," she said, sounding as though she had only just refrained from calling Spencer something far more foul. "Tell me, whatever it is, and I will do my best. I may not like it, but... well, I trust you."

Thomas stilled for a brief moment, flicking his pale eyes up to her face. Clara looked back earnestly, as though she hadn't casually said something which struck to the very heart of his being. "You may need to offer to pay off Spencer's debts in return for his relinquishment of your son's wardship," he replied, after a bare moment's pause. That made her wince. "Yes, it will tighten your finances rather severely, but within a year or so you'll have made up the loss. And if things get truly bad, I'm sure I can offer you a loan with very reasonable rates." Or even lend her the money himself.

"If it keeps me my son, I'll gladly pay whatever is needed," Clara said stoutly. "Money is just money, and Arthur is worth every penny I have. If you think we can get Spencer to settle, than that's what I'll do."

"Because you trust me," Thomas said, before he could stop the words from passing his lips.

"Because I trust you," Clara confirmed with a nod. She hadn't even hesitated.

He swallowed around the tightness in his throat and willed his heart to slow. "I shall see about inquiring into George Spencer's debts," he announced, changing the subject. He looked down at the crumpled paper on his desk and shook his head, thinking once more of how she'd acquired it and chuckling lowly as he did. "Ah Clara," he said again, "what a wonder you are."

She looked up at him from under her lashes and smiled. He met her gaze and smiled back. And there it was again—the tension that made the space between them heat and shiver and made it seem as though time itself was slowed as his eyes held hers. Clara's breathing began to grow faster and her eyes grew darker, and Thomas could even feel his own heartbeat quicken.

What there was between them was certainly potent.

It still spooked Clara, though; after a few moments, she looked away and stood. "It's getting late; I should return," she said, keeping her eyes averted as she pulled her gloves back on with skittish, jerky movements.

"You may keep the balm until Tuesday, if you like," Thomas offered, indicating the jar of salve resting on his desk as he handed her folio back. "It should help with the bruises."

"Then I think I shall, thank you," Clara accepted, tucking the jar into her pocket. She still wouldn't meet his eyes. "As it is, I'll have to keep hidden for a few weeks, or veil myself to avoid awkward questions, which will inspire different awkward questions... and I doubt most people will accept that I was hit by a gryphon, which is what I told Arthur."

Thomas snorted with laughter again. "You told your son you were hit by a gryphon?" he asked, laughing again when Clara nodded. "What did you tell your hostess?"

"Nothing," Clara replied, sounding rather proud of herself. She met his gaze then, and there was a subtle steel in her dark eyes. "And I will tell nothing. Only Benedict, and now you, know what really happened—and only because you needed to know. It will go no further."

It seemed she had an understanding of discretion after all, and could keep secrets when required. Thomas couldn't restrain a proud, wondering smile, and Clara blushed deeply once more.

Before they left his closet, Clara pulled her veil back over her face, and Thomas took her arm as she went down the stairs. "I won't fall, you know," she muttered as he helped her down.

"After our walk here from Cheapside, I'm taking no chances," Thomas replied. He shook his head. "You fell off a roof?"

"Not all the way," Clara protested. "I was hanging off the edge, trying to get down, and then my arms gave out." She rolled her shoulders as they stepped off the last stair, and she hissed through her teeth. "It was not the best landing ever, I'll admit."

"In which case, Clara, I advise you to stay on the ground in the future," he quipped wryly as he paused at the door.

"Thank you, Master Cromwell," Clara returned flatly, but he could see her amused expression through the veil as she passed him on the way out of his house.

"Thomas," he called after her.

Clara paused, and turned back to him. He could hear the smile in her voice as she replied, "Goodnight, Thomas. I will see you Tuesday."

"Tuesday," he agreed. "Goodnight, Clara."

The torchbearers fell into step beside her, and Thomas watched as the small party vanished out his gate and into the night. When she was gone, he climbed the stairs back to his closet, and collapsed into his chair, letting his head fall back as he once again heard the words which had been echoing in his head since they passed Clara's bruised lips. _I trust you_.

When she'd first said the words—lightly, casually, as though she had no understanding of what they'd do to him, likely speaking with her characteristic honesty—it had felt as though she'd just stuck her delicate little hand inside his chest and squeezed his heart. _I trust you_. That was not something he often heard, from anyone. Oh, people trusted him to an extent, but always with a caveat—_I trust you __to__, I trust you __with__, I trust you __but_. Only his children had ever given him unconditional trust. Only his children and, it seemed, Clara.

It was... strangely humbling. There he'd been, thinking of the best way to use her confidences and bind her, willing or not, to his interests... and she'd been there before him, thinking nothing but good of him and agreeable to doing whatever it was he proposed... simply because she trusted him. And she truly did, didn't she? Not just in words, but in deeds as well. Clara came to him and put herself into his hands. Thomas Cromwell knew enough about Clara Tyrell to see her dead and utterly ruined... but he would never move against her. Did she know that? Or was that just part of the trust she apparently had in him?

He didn't trust her. He knew that for a fact. She was too innocent and too honest and too naïve and too... too Clara for him to trust her. In fact, there was only one person left living whom he trusted without question, and that was himself. But Thomas liked her. He liked her very, very much.

Thomas buried his face in his hands, then rubbed them up and down before moving them up to lace his fingers into his dark hair, tugging once briefly and then letting his hands fall down into his lap. He looked down at them, taking in the paleness of the skin and the sturdiness of the bones, the faint splatters of ink and the calluses made by his quill. He had killed people with these hands... and yet, Clara had taken them, and placed herself in them, without hesitation. _I trust you_.

Though he was almost entirely unconscious of it, something inside Thomas Cromwell began to melt.

* * *

**A/N part deux**: So, now we've seen another side to Clara. People kept saying that she was the sweetest girl ever—and she is. But that's not the only thing she is, and now we've seen a little bit of what lies beneath.

No real historical notes this go-round. Although I guess I could tell you that if you couldn't pay your bill at a period (meaning here anywhere from the fourteenth to... say, the sixteenth century) inn, the innkeeper did have a right to keep all your stuff to make up for the loss. Imagine, you could be thrown out naked into the streets with no horse or shoes or anything! Moral of the story is, I guess, pay your bills at medieval inns. Or any inn, really.

Anyway, please review and let me know what you think of this latest instalment. Reviews are pretty much the only payment for writing that I get, and I cherish them all. So please, review!


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** This chapter was not at all easy to write. 'Cos you know, sometimes writing is hard. The words won't flow or the characters won't cooperate or you get stuck on a plot point that you just can't untangle... this was one of those chapters.

My thanks go out to all my reviewers (all five of you), as well as to Shout In A Whisper, for her marvellous beta-work; to Mercury Grey, who indulges me and lets me sound out ideas with her as I try to refine the details of the story, and is always helpful whenever I encounter a problem; and to WhenThePawn84 for helping inspire me to keep going through some extremely fun correspondence. (If you haven't yet checked out her fic _The Dance We Must Do_, you ought to, because it's awesome, with a feisty, rapidly maturing female protagonist who's making the best out of a really crap deal, a seductively sinister Cromwell, a egotistical but also cunning Henry VIII, and an creepifying and weird Edward Seymour who freaks the hell out of me.) Seriously, all you guys are made of win and I love every single one of you! :D

* * *

**Chapter 7:**

_4 December, 1528_

That Thursday, Clara discovered three things she'd rather not know.

The first was expected—even long-awaited, which wasn't the same as welcome. A message arrived from Grey's Inn that dismal December morning, informing Lady Tyrell that the hearing for her son's wardship would take place one week hence. All the fretting, all the preparing, all the reading and planning, all the risks and the sacrifices and all the aches and bruises had come down to this. So much build up, and it would all be over in just seven short days.

Clara was terrified.

What was going to happen? What if she lost? What would become of her without her son—or worse, her son without her? What would she do without Arthur to define her life? And what if she didn't lose? How much would the Boleyns hate her for frustrating their plans? Would they make life awful for her? Would they make it impossible to stay in London? She wasn't ready to leave and go back to Leicester. If they Boleyns let her stay, where would she stay? What would she do?

She pretended that Thomas Cromwell wasn't lurking in the back of her mind, smiling at her and telling her she was a marvel. Because that terrified her, too.

The second piece of news was slightly unexpected and slightly unwelcome, but not exactly shocking. Benedict had received a letter informing him that Sir John Gage was coming to London to spend Christmas with his children.

"Oh God," Clara groaned when Ben told her. He'd stopped by Agnes' house—by the blood of Christ, it seemed like her brother was always at Agnes' house—to let her know the contents of the letter, and to prepare her for the impending descent of their father into London.

"It's just that we're both in the same place now, for the first time in years," Ben said, looking uncomfortable, glancing at Agnes, then at Clara, then down at the letter in his hand. "And he hasn't seen you in particular for ages, and I think he wants to get a look at his grandson..."

"Oh God," Clara said again, burying her face in her hands.

"I don't understand," said Marion, looking between the siblings in confusion. "Why... aren't you glad to see your father?" It should be noted that Marion had only met John Gage once, and that was at Clara and Robert Tyrell's wedding, whereat he'd been on his best behaviour.

Clara, Ben, and Agnes shuddered, grimaced, and sighed, respectively. "Father is..." Ben began, before trailing off and shaking his head.

"Coming to London," Clara wailed into her hands. As if she didn't already have enough to worry about.

The third piece of unwelcome information was something she accidentally stumbled over, and it was the one thing she wished with all her heart that she didn't know.

It was Thursday night, and Clara and a sleeping Arthur were coming back from Shoreditch from another lesson with Alice and Joan. Although "lesson" was coming to be a misnomer—not much learning was really getting done, and her evenings with the Cromwell clan were becoming more of an evening with friends than any kind of learning experience. Still, though she was coming to love the evenings she spent at the house at Austin Friars and all the people therein, she didn't forget that she'd undertaken something for Master Crom—for Thomas, and she meant to see it through. Therefore, Alice and Joan needed to learn to manage a house... which they weren't going to do if they were always cooing over her son.

Clara considered not bringing Arthur along for the next lesson—he definitely had an adverse affect on the girls' concentration. Tonight, and Tuesday night, almost no progress had been made. As Master Crom—as Thomas had said, his nieces were trying to cosset her son to death. They petted him and gave him sweets and told him stories and proclaimed that he was a love of a lad, and paid little attention to what Clara was trying to teach them. She didn't try very hard to recall their concentration, admittedly, since she enjoyed watching Arthur grin and preen shyly—at least, when he wasn't trailing along after Richard Cromwell like a duckling. Actually, she considered, that was a better idea; she'd let Richard take charge of Arthur for at least a little while, if he was willing, and get some work done with the girls.

They stayed late, as usual. Clara was beginning to realise she never left Austin Friars until she got to talk to Thomas, and as such never departed Shoreditch until long after dark. Arthur was almost always sleeping by that time, usually in either his mother's lap, Alice's, or Joan's. That night, Arthur nodded off in Joan's lap, with his hand wrapped around Alice's sleeve. Thomas helped her carry him out to the litter they were taking back to Whitefriars—and the sight of her sleeping son cradled in Thomas Cromwell's arms made her heart flutter for a reason she didn't want to examine too closely—and she herself carried Arthur up to bed when they arrived back to Lord Sedley's house (he was still small enough, although only just; within another year, she wouldn't be able to carry him anywhere). And as she walked back to her own chambers from the nursery, a sound caught her ears—it was almost like a cry of pain, coming from Agnes' suite.

Worried, Clara moved towards her friend's door... which was when she heard another noise. A voice. A man's voice. A familiar man's voice. And she could also hear a rhythmic movement, and those weren't cries of pain they were moans of...

Oh God.

Clara immediately turned around and bolted back into her room, undressing in a hurry and rushing to bury her head under her pillows. She thought the... the _thing_ between Ben and Agnes was just a flirtation—a harmless little game of courtly love between a bored wife and a bachelor. Judging from the noises she'd just heard, this was not just a flirtation. This was physical. This was dangerous. And she wished to God she did not know about it.

As she lay in bed, covered by blankets and pillows (though Agnes' chambers were far enough away that she wouldn't be able to hear anything unless she was really, really trying), Clara wondered what her life was turning into. How did she get from a simple country wife to this—to fights in the Inns of Court and secret friendships with powerful courtiers and illegal entries into inns and even brawls in the London streets? How did she get from telling her family almost everything, to hiding almost everything? It felt like she was swimming in secrets.

The next morning, she woke with the dawn as was her usual wont and immediately wanted to get out of the house and away from the occupants of it—especially if they included Benedict Gage or Agnes Keriell. Or worse: Benedict Gage and Agnes Keriell. (Oh God, would Benedict have stayed over? Or did he steal away in the middle of the night?) How could she face Agnes, knowing that her best friend was committing adultery with her own brother? How could she face her brother, knowing the same?

But Clara also realised she was running low on alternate places to go. Before, she would always have run to her husband. If he was an inappropriate ear, for whatever reason, or part of the problem, she'd go and find Marion. Neither was an option now. For one, Robin was dead. And for another... well, not only was Marion occupying the same house she wanted to vacate, Clara knew well enough that the relationship between her sister-in-law and the parties involved was too fragile to withstand this kind of assault. If Clara confessed to Marion what was going on, there would be a row, with Marion demanding that she, Clara, and Arthur pack up and move elsewhere. And while Clara wanted to get out of the house, she didn't want it to be a permanent displacement. Besides, this was a trying time, and she needed her family united, not at each others' throats. So Marion was out. Rosamond was dead, as were Bess and Sarah. And Chelsea and Meg were not viable options for a retreat, either—not when every time she thought of Thomas More, she could hear Thomas Cromwell inside her head: _are you in love with him_?

What she really wanted, she finally admitted, was to go to Austin Friars and talk to Cromwell. It was her last—and pretty much only—refuge left in London... but she was spending so much time there already. Yesterday, Ralph Sadler asked when she was moving in. Admittedly, he was joking... but still, he had a point. Clara already spent Tuesday and Thursday nights there, and she'd been invited to attend another sermon Sunday next. Two to three nights a week was a rather lot of Thomas' valuable time, and the poor man probably wanted some time to spend alone with his family. The last thing Clara wanted to do was overstay her welcome (given that Austin Friars had become one of her favourite places in London to be) or overstep her boundaries with the very private Thomas Cromwell (and he was private; she could name on one hand the things he'd told her about himself, and one of those might've been in jest).

Which left her, at this precise moment in time, with... nothing. Nothing, and nowhere, and no one. This was a burden she was going to have to bear on her own, and it felt heavier for it.

_

* * *

_

_9 December 1528_

Cromwell noticed that there was something heavy weighing on Clara's mind within moments of seeing her.

He arrived home from court before dusk that Tuesday, having hurried as much as he could through the day, knowing Clara and her son would be awaiting him in Shoreditch. Sure enough, when he arrived home, he was informed that Lady Tyrell was in the hall with his nieces.

A few moments after he stepped into the house, Alice and Joan emerged and came to greet him. It amused him, as it always did, to see them together—since the deaths of their parents when they had been brought to live at Austin Friars (though not together; Alice had come first, and Joan later) they had practically become one unit, Alice-and-Joan, as close as sisters, for all they were cousins with a handful of years between them. But they were so very different, physically. Alice, at thirteen, took after the Cromwell side of the family, with dark hair, a sturdy build, and blocky features. The nine-year-old Joan, however, was more of a Wyckes: smaller and slimmer with fairer hair and eyes.

"How was court today, uncle?" Alice inquired.

"Did you get to see Lady Anne? What was she wearing?" Joan asked curiously.

"It was fine, and not lately, no," Thomas replied indulgently.

"Girls," came a soft voice, which was coming to be very familiar.

Thomas looked up and saw that Clara had appeared in the doorway, as if by magic, and felt a smile spread almost reflexively across his face. At the same time, his eyes ran quickly over her, from head to foot. It was more than a week now since her foray into espionage, and her visible injuries were all but gone. Her eye was no longer blackened, her lip no longer swollen, and her quiet grace returned—as her unnoticed approach indicated. But there was a worried crease marring her forehead, and her answering smile was not as bright as its usual wont.

Ergo, he concluded that there was something on her mind.

"We have not yet finished the lesson," Clara went on, her tone softly chiding.

"But we wanted to greet Uncle Thomas," Alice explained, glancing slyly up at her uncle, then over at her tutor.

"Don't you want to say good evening to Uncle Thomas, Lady Clara?" Joan added leadingly, with a saucy grin.

Clara gave his nieces a stern, scolding look and wordlessly pointed back into the hall. Alice and Joan sighed, but dipped a swift curtsey to him and tromped back inside. "Good evening to you, Thomas," Clara murmured, once the girls were gone.

"And to you, Clara," Thomas replied, letting his lips quirk upwards in amusement at Joan's boldness. "Where is your son this evening? Did he not accompany you?"

He hoped that wasn't the case. Arthur Tyrell was the spitting image of his mother, and as such one of the sweetest little boys in Christendom. His bright, childish laughter seemed to lighten the heaviness which had descended on the Cromwell domicile of late. It was too long since there was a child—a young child, because sometimes Joan seemed to be nine going on thirty-five—in the house. Besides, it amused him to watch Alice and Joan and even Richard, in his way, fawn over the boy—almost as much as he liked seeing Clara glow at every smile and giggle her son emitted.

"He's out in the mews with Richard," Clara replied fondly. "I thought Alice and Joan might be able to concentrate better were he absent, and Arthur did so want to see the hawks." A swift frown danced across her face, then, and she turned away from him to scowl in the direction Alice and Joan had vanished. Had she heard something? "Excuse me, Thomas—I must see if I can't get them back on task for a little longer," she said with a subtle roll of her dark eyes. "They are very giddy tonight."

"They find you very interesting," Thomas pointed out, without elaborating on the cause of their interest. He knew it was because the girls were curious as to how Clara had gone from a humble petitioner to a trusted companion, and extremely interested in what she was to him. "Even more so since..." he trailed off significantly, and gestured at his face. He'd heard them speculating that Clara was under the sway of a wicked father or brother or uncle, and that he was trying to rescue her.

Clara winced. "Yes, I know. Girls do so love a mystery," she quipped dryly, before turning and wafting back into the great hall.

Thomas watched her go, observing the way her skirts swept against the floor and the way her hips moved, trying to make out how she walked... and, he admitted to himself, enjoying the view. Though it was easy to dismiss Clara as plain upon a first glance, subsequent glances revealed a subtle, understated beauty that, once noticed, only grew clearer and clearer the more one looked at her, cursing oneself for overlooking and dismissing such a woman. And he had been looking very often of late.

Once she was out of sight, Thomas took the opportunity to go upstairs and divest himself of his court clothes, moving to sort the day's papers in his privy closet before hurrying back downstairs. Apparently the lesson for the evening was now over, since he found Clara packing up her papers when he returned to the great hall. Alice and Joan were nowhere to be seen.

"They've gone to see to supper," Clara offered in response to his unspoken query, tucking her folio and her ledgers into her satchel and stacking the books that belonged to him on the corner of the table. "I think it will be served with the quarter-hour."

Thomas nodded, but he noted that she still looked as though she was fretting about something—her movements were absent and her lips were pursed in thought, and when she looked at him it was as though she wasn't really seeing him. "Shall we go fetch our wayward boys from the mews?" he inquired, wanting to get her alone for a bit and see if he couldn't discover what it was on her mind, and whether or not it was dangerous.

Had something happened with her case? Had she been pressured into confessing something she had previously kept secret? Would the Boleyns be descending on him tomorrow at court, raging about his association with someone they considered an enemy? Had she been coaxed into revealing the source of her injuries a week ago? Was there strife in her family? Or worse, was it something to do with him? Had she been frightened off by the attraction that was growing between them? An attraction which, Thomas admitted privately, he wasn't doing much to quash or control, heartily enjoying the way she reacted to him?

Clara was quiet as they walked out to the mews together in the deepening twilight, her footsteps silent. Though Thomas strained his ears, all he could hear was the noises of London, his own footsteps, and the soft voices of the two boys inside with the birds.

As they stepped inside, Thomas couldn't immediately discern the location of his nephew; it was dark and he was not certain where inside Richard and Arthur were. Clara, however, instantly made a beeline to the left, and began to make her way around cages and perches towards where, he presumed, the boys were. It seemed her acute hearing had simpler, practical uses as well, he mused, as he followed in her wake.

Sure enough, Clara was able to lead him right to where Richard and Arthur were, with Richard holding Arthur up to stroke the wing of Thomas' favourite bird: a young kestrel with light brown feathers and a white head, which was hidden at the moment by a hood. Arthur was beaming and plainly enthralled, though he stroked the bird with a soft, gentle deliberation he must have learned from his mother. It seemed, however, that he had not inherited her ears, since the two weren't aware of the approach of their guardians until Thomas cleared his throat softly.

Both boys turned to look at them, and Arthur carefully took his hand away from the kestrel. Good—it seemed Richard had schooled the little boy on how to act with the birds.

"Uncle, Lady Tyrell, good evening," Richard said with a crooked grin as he carefully lowered Arthur back to the ground. "I was just showing Arthur the hawks."

Arthur sketched a little bow. "Good evening, Master Cromwell," he greeted, very properly, before looking up at him earnestly with Clara's soft brown eyes. "You have very nice birds."

"Thank you, Master Tyrell," Thomas replied solemnly, smiling down at the little boy.

Arthur then turned to his mother, and went over to tug at her skirts. "Mama, may I have a hawk for Christmas?" he asked. "Richard says he'll teach me to hawk when I grow up."

"Then when you are grown up, we shall talk of getting you a hawk," Clara replied, in a tone meant to forestall further discussion.

That made her son frown a little, and it was a near-mirror expression of the one Clara had been wearing earlier. "Please, Mama?" Arthur entreated, dissatisfied. "I will take good care of him, I promise. I want to call him Merlin!"

"A kestrel, dear heart, is not a merlin," Clara pointed out with a smile.

Her son was not impressed with her observation. "Mama," he whined.

"We will talk later, Arthur; don't whine," his mother said sternly. "Now, let us go in and wash your hands—supper will be served soon."

Thomas caught Richard's eye and made a discreet signal with his right hand. "I'll take him in, my Lady," Richard offered, correctly reading the sign and realising that his uncle wanted to be left alone with the lady. He managed not to smirk too obviously as he led Arthur out of the mews, only tossing a faint grin over his shoulder as he passed.

The moment they were alone, Thomas turned to Clara. "What's wrong?"

Clara bit her lip and looked up at him; her dark eyes were liquid and lovely in the dim torchlight—they'd be lovelier still, if the emotion within them was something other than stark terror. "The trial date has been set," she confessed quietly. "For two days hence." She took in a shaking breath, looking as though she was about to either vomit, or faint. "I... I'm not ready. It's too fast. There has to be something that I... I'm not ready." Her voice grew softer yet. "I'm afraid."

Thomas reached out and took her hands in his; they were cold and trembling, and he rubbed them briskly, enjoying the feeling of the soft, smooth silkiness of her fingers sliding over his rougher skin. "You are ready," he corrected her quietly but firmly. "You are intelligent and you are strong—far stronger than I think most people give you credit. I have no doubts that you will acquit yourself well." He squeezed her hands to punctuate his statement, and debated briefly whether or not he could get away with kissing her fingers. Deciding against it—he didn't want to spook her—he simply added, sincerely, "I will pray for you."

"Thank you," Clara murmured, looking down at where their hands were still interlaced, and unconsciously leaning in towards him, like a flower towards the sun. But the tension did not leave her shoulders, and the anxiety did not leave her face.

"What else is wrong?" Thomas inquired, keeping her hands pinioned within his own.

Clara glanced up at him, and the unease in her expression was suddenly leavened with wry resignation. "My father is coming to spend Christmas with us in London," she announced gloomily, ducking her head back down. "He wrote that he will come a fortnight from now."

His grip on her hands tightened, almost involuntarily. "Clara, your father...?" he began delicately, trying to find a tactful way to voice his suspicions. Was her father like his father? Should he fear for her during this holiday season? Should he find some way to spirit her and her son away, or otherwise keep them out of company with Sir John Gage? Was it due to her father that she walked and spoke so softly, and did not want people looking at her? Did Sir John treat her like Walter had treated Kat and Bet?

"My father," Clara repeated unhappily, pulling herself away from him and moving away, towards the darkest part of the mews. She wrapped her arms around herself and drew inward, as though trying to make a smaller target, and once again she reminded him of his sisters, who had often stood thusly when Walter was absent.

Thomas didn't let her draw away, but stepped up beside her, allowing bare inches of space between them. He refused to let her hide from him. "Clara..."

"Please don't," she whispered, shrinking back into the shadows. "He's my father, and I can't... he's my father." That was all that could be said, wasn't it?

"All right," Thomas agreed quietly. He knew how hard it was to defy one's parents, even if said parents treated their children like dogs. "But if you need to get away, my home is always open to you."

"Thank you," Clara said fervently, meeting his eyes for the first time since her father was mentioned. "Thomas, thank you."

And there was the heat which sparked to life between them, burning much hotter and faster the more time they spent together. Especially here, and now, as they tarried alone together in the dark. Thomas could see the light from the torches reflecting in Clara's dark eyes, and her black garb was swallowed by the shadows. Only her face was visible, pale in the darkness. And he thought she was beautiful.

But once again, she was frightened off by the attraction, and dropped her gaze, stepping away from him and hurrying towards the door. "We should go in—I don't want the girls to have to hold supper," she said awkwardly, hunching her shoulders.

Thomas stepped out of the shadows himself, and moved calmly towards her, as though there was nothing wrong, nothing out of the ordinary, and they left the mews together. But there was still something weighing on Clara—her brow was still furrowed and her lips pinched. If he had to guess, he'd wager that there was something bothering her that she hadn't told him... or couldn't tell him.

"Something is still bothering you," he remarked quietly, before they stepped back inside the house. "And if you cannot speak of it, I will respect your privacy." To a point, anyway. If he could coax her to reveal it, he would. "But if it would help to confide in someone, I am ready to listen. And I give you my word of honour that I will not breathe a word to anyone."

Clara sighed, seeming to sag, and her face twisted with a myriad of emotions—Thomas noted anger, confusion, shame, and above all that omnipresent worry. As she passed the doorway, she struck out, lightly punching the wooden panels as she passed and hissing in pain immediately thereafter.

"That, Clara, is not the proper way to throw a punch," Thomas chided gently, catching her hand and rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, ostensibly checking for injuries. "You'll deal yourself just as much pain as your recipient if you hit like that." He glanced up at her face, once again marking the turmoil there, and made a decision. "After dinner, I will show you the proper way."

Because to his mind, Clara needed the release. She was wound too tightly, and if she did not find some way to relieve some of the stress she was under, she was going to make herself sick. Since he knew for a fact Clara wouldn't allow him take her to bed and give her relief in that manner (a bit of a pity, but only a bit; Thomas wasn't sure if their friendship was strong enough to endure that kind of test, nor did he want to destroy an association which was becoming extremely precious to him for something as vulgar and common as physical pleasure), it would have to be some other kind of physical exertion, and this was what presented itself.

"That is," he added, with a hint of an arch challenge in his voice, "if you think you are able."

Clara glanced up at him sharply, assessing the sentiment behind his words, and then smiled, her face settling into determined lines. "I am stronger than people give me credit for, Master Cromwell," she replied coyly, echoing his words from earlier.

Grinning in return, Thomas led her into dinner.

* * *

The meal was good and the conversation revolved mostly around hawking—Arthur had apparently expressed his desire for a hawk to all and sundry, and wanted to hear all about the birds and what he could do with them. He also kept entreating his mother for a bird.

"...and Alice says Master Cromwell will let me keep my bird in his mews, since we haven't got any of our own," the boy was saying, trying to persuade his mother that even though they didn't have mews—either in London, or in Leicestershire—he could still have a hawk.

Clara cast a dark look at Alice, who just grinned sheepishly. "I think you had better ask Master Cromwell before assuming that he will host your hawk," she warned her son.

Arthur immediately pivoted to face Thomas, a hopeful look on his face. "May I keep my hawk here, Master Cromwell?" he asked excitedly.

Thomas found himself caught between Arthur's winning, childish excitement, and Clara's warning glance. It reminded him of the past, when Anne or Grace would ask him for some kind of treat (a new dress, or a new book, or angel wings made of peacock feathers), and Liz would hover in the background, giving him a stern glare, hands on her hips, making it plainer than words that he was not to give into his daughters.

Though he often did, anyway.

This reminder of times lost eased the ache of the empty places inside his heart, as though Arthur and Clara had built a fire in a frozen, barren house. It was a welcome feeling—one he could see reflected in the faces of the others at the table—as though something that was lost had been returned.

"If your mother lets you have a hawk, Master Arthur, you may of course keep him or her here," Thomas allowed. Clara kicked him under the table. "But only if your mother permits," he amended quickly.

Arthur immediately turned his attention to his mother, and spent the rest of the meal trying to convince her that he was a big boy and deserved to have a hawk, that he would take good care of it and he would go out hawking every day—unless he had lessons—and, and, and...

The expression on Clara's face grew more harried—though to her credit, she never lost her temper and snapped at her persistent child—and by the time supper was finished she looked as though she was about to crack a tooth from clenching her jaw. It was a good thing he'd already decided to help her release some tension, Thomas supposed; his shoulders were starting to ache just from looking at hers.

As the younger ones adjourned to the withdrawing room, Thomas watched Clara catch Joan by the arm and draw her into a quick conference. "Amuse him, I pray you, with stories of anything but hawking," she whispered intently. "If I have to endure any more entreaties for a hawk I am going to tear out my hair."

"Yes, Clara," Joan agreed, giggling a little before hurrying after the others.

"I blame you for this," Clara muttered to him as she shrugged into her cloak—the night had turned chilly after the sun went down.

Thomas chuckled lowly. "Blame Richard," he returned amusedly, shrugging into his own coat and leading her out to the space that served as a tiltyard. "He was the one who showed Arthur the mews."

He brought them to a halt in front of the straw dummy which was used as a target when Richard was horsed, and which would serve adequately as a punching bag, though doubtless the coarse burlap would be rough on Clara's hands. He had already requested that torches be set round the area to provide some light, and a pale moon lent its own illumination to the scene. "Now, Clara, show me how it was you hit the man in your last fight," he began, holding up the palm of his right hand.

"My only fight," Clara corrected him crossly. "I don't go around getting into brawls willy-nilly—that was the only time."

Thomas ignored her petulance. "Show me how you punched him," he repeated, gesturing to the palm of his hand and indicating that she should hit there.

Clara made a fist and set her jaw, then paused. "Will this... it won't hurt you, will it?" she asked tentatively.

"Are you wearing any rings?" he inquired patiently, knowing full well she was not. When she shook her head, Thomas gave her a brisk nod. "Then I shall be fine. Whenever you are ready, my lady."

Clara once again clenched her hand into a fist, took a deep breath, and swung, hitting the centre of his palm with a smack. Thomas nodded—it was about as he expected. Desperation had likely leant her strength the last time she had needed to hit someone, because that was the feeble punch of a gentlewoman. And what with the way she was forming her fist, it was a marvel she hadn't broken her thumb or her fingers.

"Good," was all he said, though. "However, you are forming your fist badly. Where did you strike the man?"

"The side of his neck," she replied, putting a hand to the left side of her throat.

He nodded again. "The softness of the target area is likely the only reason you didn't break something in your hand," he went on. Thomas extended his arm and made a fist, folding his thumb across the tight coil of his fingers and displaying it to Clara. "See? Now hold up your hand."

She did so, looking nervous, and Thomas struck out and punched her palm. Their skin met with a smack. "Ow," she complained, cradling her hand to her chest.

"Did you notice? There was no give in the fist," Thomas said, raising a brow at her sensitivity. "Make another fist," he instructed, taking her hand from her chest and folding her fingers in. Even in the dim light, he could see the flush rising in her cheeks. "And strike from your shoulders, like this," he added, stepping away and striking out at the air in demonstration. "Hold your wrist rigid, and make contact with your first two fingers." Then he held up his hand. "Try again."

Clara did, reforming her fist as he directed, and punched, making contact with a sharp smack and knocking his hand back. "Well done," Thomas praised. Then he took out a handkerchief from his doublet, bid Clara to give him her hand, and used it to wrap her knuckles. "Now, punch the dummy," he ordered, backing away and pointing to the straw model. "It will give you a better idea of what it is to strike a person."

Once again, she did as he asked, snapping her arm out and contacting the burlap-covered straw with a resounding crunch. Immediately after impact, she let out a yelp. "That hurt," she complained, rubbing her wrist.

"When you're in a fight, and your blood is up, you don't much care if it hurts, so long as the other person hurts more than you," Thomas noted.

For some reason, that seemed to cast a pall over Clara's face. A scowl settled across her pretty face, and her shoulders tensed. "Apparently people will do a variety of stupid things when their blood is up," she said bitterly, and she punched the dummy again with a particular viciousness.

Thomas felt his eyebrows quirk upward in surprise, and they climbed higher as he watched Clara lash out, punching the dummy again and again, even striking it with a fist made from her weaker, unprepared left hand as well. Her breathing increased, her features twisting into a mask of anger that he felt was particularly unsuitable, and he could hear her hissing what could be words as she punched. Something, he knew, had upset her deeply—was still upsetting her deeply. He wondered whose face she was seeing as she punched the burlap.

Finally, Clara's anger seemed to run dry, and she stopped punching, instead pivoting to fall back onto the dummy, tilting her head back to rest against the burlap. In the pallid moonlight, Thomas saw her chest heaving, and noticed a single tear-track shining on her cheek. As he watched, she reached up and savagely wiped it away with the heel of her hand before looking up at the moon. The lost, miserable, almost anguished look upon her countenance made him ache for her, and he wanted to reach out and take her into his arms. But considering she balked whenever they looked at each other for a moment too long, Thomas didn't think she'd allow that kind of contact. And indeed, the urge to be tender with this woman took him very much by surprise—almost as much as the strength of said urge.

He supposed he should be glad that Clara was such a skittish, virtuous woman.

So instead of touching her, he gentled his voice. "Clara, please tell me what's wrong," he requested softly, as though he were talking to a wounded animal.

She pulled her eyes from the sky and turned them onto him; even in the faint light, he could see that they were shining with tears. The moonlight and the torchlight gilded her pale skin in shades of gold and silver and leeched the colour from her brown hair, shading it into the hues of night. It all made her look ethereally beautiful as she gazed up at him. In a fit of whimsy, Thomas thought that even the queen of fairies could not be more beautiful than little Clara Tyrell in this moment, and scolded himself soundly for his sentimentality.

"I discovered something I wish I didn't know," she confessed quietly. Swallowing around what must be a lump in her throat, she added, "Ben and Agnes, they... well." She raised her eyebrows significantly, which didn't hide the conflict in the eyes below. "I heard them at it, last Thursday night." Anger settled back into the lines of her face. "How could they be so stupid!" she fumed—quietly, as was her wont.

Clara was the quietest angry woman he'd ever seen, and Thomas was quietly amused by it. Most women shouted and raved and waved their arms; Clara was a compact little ball of rage, seething silently and hissing out her fury in undertones, her wrath trembling in her delicate fists. She still reminded him of an angry little kitten... or like a little lion cub, which would one day grow into a fierce lioness.

"Don't they understand it's dangerous?" she was saying, clenching her hands in her black skirts. "It's dangerous, and it's a sin—they're both committing adultery! How could they do this to me—at this juncture! Oh, fine," she demurred, as though he'd spoken and chided her for her selfishness, "I understand that it has little to do with me—though it was my problems which threw them together again, which I suppose means it's my fault... but they couldn't have waited until a more opportune time? I have to appear in court in two days. Father is coming to London in two weeks! What if he discovers them? What if Lord Sedley discovers them? He'll throw me out of the house and put Agnes in a nunnery. I can't get thrown out of the house now!" Something occurred to her, and her face went white with horror. "What if the judges discover them? They'll rule against me for certain! Oh God, why are they doing this?" she wailed quietly, pressing her fists to her head.

Thomas stepped forward and grasped her narrow shoulders firmly. "Clara, calm down," he commanded. He needed to be sensible for her right now; she was obviously nearly ready to break down. "This is not your fault. They are two grown people who make their own choices." He could feel her breathing begin to slow under his hands, and her eyes as they looked up into his were much less frantic. "I doubt your case is in any danger from this, especially with the hearing only two days hence. If your brother and Lady Sedley are careful, as I am sure they have taken care to be, they won't be discovered until after everything is settled."

"What about father?" she asked, dread heavy in her voice. "His ears are just as good as mine."

Interesting. He made a note of that fact. "Perhaps they will be discreet while he visits," he offered soothingly.

"Discretion is not a virtue in either of them," Clara grumbled. "I would've noticed the way the wind was blowing far sooner if I'd been less preoccupied. And Father... he'll find them out in an instant, the moment they're in company together."

Her shoulders shuddered in his grasp—a testament to how repulsive she found the prospect? Or in fear? Thomas found that he wanted to meet John Gage, and see what kind of man he was for himself. "Then perhaps you should have a quiet word with them before he arrives, and see if you might not convince them to... practise discretion," he suggested delicately. "Or end the whole intaglio altogether." The look on her face said it all. "Yes, it will be uncomfortable, but it may forestall further discomfort in the future," he reminded her.

Clara sighed—a slight, birdlike movement under his hands. "I suppose I have no choice. Once the case is over, to whatever end, I'll have to catch them alone," she said resignedly, her tone dubious. She sighed again, more gustily. "Why did this have to happen now?" she complained.

Thomas restrained himself from remarking that she sounded a little like Arthur, whining for a hawk. Like mother, like son. Instead, he slid a hand around from her shoulder to rest on her back, and pushed her gently away from the straw dummy. Clara meekly let him guide her back to the house.

As they walked, he advised, "Put it out of your mind, for now. Focus only on the case. Your son is all that matters. Win your case, and then turn your mind to other matters." They stepped back inside the house, and Clara was now gilt with golden firelight; she was still beautiful (and now that he'd noticed her beauty, he couldn't cease to notice it), but not as unworldly. Pulling her to a stop and turning her to face him, and put his hands back on her shoulders. "For tonight, Clara, go home to bed," he suggested firmly. "Tomorrow, arrange your papers, use the morning to prepare yourself, and do something else in the afternoon before going to bed early. Make sure you are fresh and keen on Thursday. And though this is likely wasted breath, try not to worry. I have every faith in you."

"No breath of yours could ever be wasted, Thomas," Clara replied softly. She gazed up at him with a small, trusting, grateful smile on her face, and it suddenly felt like he could hardly breathe, as though the woman before him had done as he'd taught her and punched him right in the chest.

Something inside him shivered as his heartbeat quickened, as though he were in danger. This time, he was the one who balked and drew back, pulling away from something larger than himself which he instinctively knew would swamp him if he wasn't careful.

"Will you pray for me?" Clara asked earnestly.

"Of course," Thomas replied, twitching a small smile in return. "Will you come on Thursday, as usual?"

"I don't know," Clara admitted. "It will depend..."

"Come when you can, if you please, and at least let me know what happened," he requested.

"I will," she promised.

As Thomas helped her collect her things and her son, he made a point of not touching her. Clara, too, took care not to come to close. It seemed that they were both aware of the strength of their attraction to one another, and had both been unsettled by the same. And as he watched the litter in which she left his house vanish through the gates, he mused upon her, and what it was that enabled her to slip under his walls. Because somehow she was in there—during the course of their acquaintance (which was not even a month old, yet), she'd thrown hooks into him as deep and strong as anything he'd used to tie her to himself, and he was unsure how she'd done it, or how he felt about it. He'd shrugged off the advances of the most practised courtiers, and yet Clara had, without even trying, carved out a place for herself in his life. Her company was peaceful and soothing; when he was with her, something inside him relaxed.

And that, Thomas supposed as he went up to his chambers, was his answer. Clara was... easy to be with. He didn't have to discern the thoughts underneath her eyes, because they were right on the surface. He didn't have to look past her mask, because she didn't wear one. He didn't have to listen for a lie, because she never told them. And he never needed to wonder what she was thinking or feeling, because she'd somehow manage to let him know. There was no hidden sting, no secret agenda, no subtle bindings or words dripped into his ears. Clara was... Clara; clear and open and utterly candid, and as refreshing as a cool spring on a hot day.

Shrugging into his nightshirt, Thomas paused to look out the window at the moon, recalling how its silver light had gleamed on Clara's pale skin—on her pretty face, and on her flashing fists as she struck out in anger. He'd been surprised by her show of temper, and the display of fierceness he'd witnessed. Of course, nearly every time they were in company she somehow surprised him.

He wondered, idly, as he settled down to pray, when or if she would ever cease.

* * *

_11 December, 1528_

As he walked down the panelled halls towards Lady Anne's rooms, a dangerous book tucked discreetly under his arm, Cromwell did his best to push Clara out of his mind. Though today she was in court, fighting for the wardship of her son, and he wondered how she fared, and wished he could support her openly, he could not afford to be distracted—not right now. If he was stopped... if anyone got a look at the book he had in his hand at this moment... if Lady Anne did not react favourably... everything would come tumbling down. This was his great gamble, for himself and for the Reformed religion, and while he had hedged his bets as best he could, there was still an element of risk.

He reached Lady Anne's door and was shown into her suite of rooms by one of her ladies, who moved to catch her mistress' attention. "My lady?"

Anne looked away from the window, out of which she had been idly staring. The sunlight streaming through the glass illuminated her perfectly, and he dispassionately noted the attractions of the woman who had captivated the king. Like Clara (_don't think of her, Thomas_), Anne Boleyn was not a traditional beauty. Unlike the blonde, buxom, blue-eyed feminine ideal in the English court, Anne was dark and slim and intense. Her hair fell in rich, black waves all the way to her waist; her skin was even paler than Clara's (_don't think of her, Thomas_), and her eyes... those eyes were sharp, keen, piercing, and hypnotic, so pale a blue as to be nearly colourless. She was striking more than beautiful, but her very exoticness drew the eye like a lodestone to a magnet. And she had a presence to her, a charisma and an allure that utterly defied description, but which either made people adore her and fall at her feet, or made them hate her with an equally vehement passion. Not even Thomas Cromwell was immune to the near-legendary charm of Anne Boleyn, though he buried its effects deep and through his self-control was able to mostly ignore it.

"Lady Anne," Cromwell acknowledged with a bow as he entered into her rooms.

"Master Cromwell," Anne returned, rising from her seat by the window. She was wearing red today, trimmed with gold that sparkled in the sunlight as she moved. "Do... do you have a message from the king?"

The hesitation in her tone made him wonder if the two of them were on the outs at the moment... again. The king and Lady Anne did make a sport out of their arguments, rowing and reconciling with a near-clockwork regularity. It seemed to be some form of... seduction. No, that was not the word, since there would be no culmination. Foreplay, perhaps. Personally, Thomas thought such a relationship would be utterly exhausting; then again, he was not the king, nor was he infatuated with Anne Boleyn.

Instead of answering her question, Cromwell lowered his voice. "I think we understand each other," he began, and he could see his apparent non sequitur had intrigued Lady Anne; curiosity lit in her steel-blue eyes. "A mutual friend—a Mr. Fish, now living in exile in Holland—has sent me a gift for you."

She recognised the name—he could tell by the slightest lift of the corner of her lips. They did indeed understand each other. "What is it, Master Cromwell?" she inquired, leaning towards him and lowering her voice. Her movements and the timbre of her speech were almost flirtatious; Cromwell would've been slightly uncomfortable were it not for the fact that Anne acted this way with most men. It was just her way—her polished, cosmopolitan, French-educated way.

Cromwell took the book and handed it to Lady Anne; she accepted it with her tapered, white fingers. "_The Obedience of the Christian Man_, by William Tyndale. It contains many good criticisms of the papacy and of the arrogance and abuses of priests—you'll find it most illuminating," he explained, letting his satisfaction bleed into his even tones, letting Anne hear and understand how passionate about the cause he was.

And though she was not a foolish woman—in fact, Anne was one of the most intelligent women he'd ever met before, including Clara (_don't think of her, Thomas_)—he felt compelled nonetheless to add a warning, in case her ambition outstripped her sense. That was often the case with her brother, George, and even with her father. The Boleyns were nothing if not ambitious, and Anne might feel she was powerful enough to ignore the heresy laws, that she was secure enough in the king's favour to be indiscreet with her reading material and the source of it. And perhaps she truly was powerful enough... but he was not. "But always and ever be cautious as to whom you show this. You must know it might be accounted heresy even to posses it, and Wolsey is still keen enough to prosecute heretics as we are called, who embrace the true religion," he finished, a subtle rind of pride in his voice. 'Heretic' was a label he would wear with pride, as it distinguished him as one who lived with his eyes open, who had fought free of the superstition and shadows with which the Catholic Church held sway.

Anne nodded slowly, hearing his warning and accepting it. "I will. And God bless you, Master Cromwell," she added intensely, subtly extending her tacit acceptance to him as a friend of the gospel, and as a friend to her cause.

Success.

Without a further word, Cromwell bowed to her, and turned to go. If he tarried too long, people would ask questions, and that was something he didn't want to risk. But a call from Anne made his pause. "Wait." He waited, turning to watch her walk back to her place near the window and take up what appeared to be a piece of embroidery, before returning and handing it to him. It was indeed embroidery—silk on silk, all done with love-knots and flowers. "Please, will you give this to the King, with my love?" Anne asked, that knife-sharp intensity softening as she spoke of the man who was even now moving heaven and earth to have her. Whatever else could be said of Anne Boleyn, she did love the King.

Either that, or she was the best actress living.

Cromwell merely accepted the token with a murmured, "My lady," bowed to her, and left.

As he walked through the halls, he ensured that his face was impassive, even though inside he was triumphant and jubilant. He'd been able to pass the book off to Anne Boleyn, which had established his bona fides as a friend to the gospel and—almost more importantly at this juncture—as a friend to her. Hopefully it would do his career some good.

He could only hope Clara was having equal success.

* * *

Clara was not going to faint.

She was entirely clear on that. She was not going to faint, and she was not going to throw up. No, Lady Clara Tyrell was going to sit patiently and calmly next to Ben and Marion in the antechamber (wearing her new dress, and looking very well indeed, if she did say so herself), ignore George Spencer, and wait for the judge's verdict.

In her inexpert opinion, the hearing had gone well. Spencer had shown up, ostentatious as usual in green silk and sable trim and trailing a young manservant or page or perhaps even a younger sibling, looking cringing and awkward and ready to lick his patron's boots at the drop of a hat. Clara was demure and modest, yet fashionable in her new gown of black velvet, escorted by her brother, looking dashing in a brown and russet jacket, and Marion, looking every inch the spinster aunt in drab, unfashionable black bombazine. The judges were three London men—one man who was slender, grey-eyed and grey-haired, one who was portly and florid, and the last a slender, balding gentleman with dark eyes. Spencer presented his brief to the three judges, speaking arrogantly, lambasting her as a mere woman, and concisely, as though he could not conceive of needing to say more.

And then came Clara.

The beginning was not the best, she knew that. She stammered and spoke so quietly that one of the judges—the balding one with the kindly brown eyes—had to ask her to speak louder and start over. Blushing, and keenly aware of the way Spencer was smirking and sniggering at her, Clara remembered what Thomas Cromwell had said to her last night, sincerity in his black-velvet voice as it brushed over her frazzled nerves: _I have __every__ faith in you_. Taking a deep breath, and imagining that he was there behind her, supporting her with Ben and Marion, she spoke.

She spoke of her husband's will, presenting it to the court as evidence. She spoke of her capabilities to run the estates, as she had been doing for the past six months. And then she spoke of Spencer, and of what she knew of his capabilities to run the estates—or any estate, for that matter. Cromwell had come through for her; through his contacts, Clara was able to point out that Spencer was deeply in debt and that his lands were poorly run. She accused him of spending far beyond his income—providing actual numbers as evidence—and concluded he would run the Tyrell holdings into the ground, were he given control of them. And she concluded with her anxieties in regards to Master Spencer's character, providing her observations of his behaviour and calling him out on his violations of the sumptuary laws.

George Spencer's face grew steadily more mottled the longer Clara spoke. When she mentioned his debts, he had bolted to his feet and shouted an objection. The judges had to speak sharply to him and even threaten him with ejection from the chamber before the man subsided, and even then Clara could feel his glare on her back like the heat off a fire. Which, she supposed, meant she was doing something right.

He was still glaring at her, now that they were in the anteroom; and, judging by the virulence of his expression, it was a good thing they were not alone. Clara ignored him with aplomb, sticking her nose back into her Bible—a Latin copy, of course—and reminding herself not to faint. She'd come close. Once they'd both spoken, the judges had put a series of questions to the two of them. Neither she nor Spencer had done well, really, in their replies; Spencer was still frothing at the mouth, and Clara had nearly hyperventilated herself into unconsciousness. Benedict had then asked, and been granted the right to speak to the judges, due to his interest in the upbringing of the boy who was currently his heir. He seconded Clara's concerns about Spencer's character and requested that Their Honours permit Arthur to remain with his mother, where Benedict would be able to have a part in raising the boy as well. Then it was time to finish the matter, and once George Spencer and Clara Tyrell delivered their closing statements, they had all been ordered out of the chamber to await verdict.

_I did my best_, Clara thought to herself, looking without seeing at the page of Latin Psalms. _I did my best, and now it is out of my hands._ Alea iacta est, _and all that_. _All I can do is pray_. _And not faint_.

She managed to keep her composure for the hour and a half she had to wait better than Spencer did. He had resorted to pacing the corridor, glowering at her every time he passed, while his manservant (or his page, or whoever that boy was) trotted along in his wake, trying to calm him down, coaxing him to sit and take some ale. Clara, on the other hand, just sat quietly, getting more and more inwardly tense. She tucked her Bible away, unable to concentrate, and let Marion take her chilly hands and grasp them—whether for Marion's comfort or Clara's was unknown. Perhaps for both.

"You should have some ale too, Clara," Ben murmured to her eventually, when Spencer's servant was able to get his master settled with a cup. "You're as white as a sheet, and look likely to faint."

"I'm not going to faint," Clara said.

"I'll get her some," Marion offered quietly, standing and moving to the table.

However, before anyone could consume any beverages, they were summoned back into the courtroom.

Clara's face went whiter still, and her vision went grey around the edges for a moment; she could distantly feel Benedict's strong hands on her arm, keeping her upright. Then she took a deep breath, clenched her hands into fists, and rose to her feet. And on her brother's arm, she went forth to face her future, whatever it was going to turn out to be.

"The verdict of the judges is thus," spoke the head judge—the portly, florid one. "The wardship of Arthur Tyrell of Ardley, Leicestershire, is to be granted to George Spencer of Peasemore, Berkshire."

Spencer let out a low exultation of triumph, audible only to her and Ben, while Clara felt as though her heart had stopped—perhaps because it felt as though the judges' words were blows, and she'd just been struck by them. And she knew what that felt like. Her soul began to sink down into despair as the tears gathered in her eyes—it was all for nothing!—when the judges spoke again, and slowed her descent.

"However, due to the concerns expressed by Master Gage and Lady Tyrell, as well as the importance of the boy's future holdings, we have decided that the Tyrell lands will be held, in trust, until Arthur Tyrell's majority, and managed by his mother," the second judge added, with a stern look at Spencer. "We will draw up the papers, and you will return tomorrow to sign them. That is our verdict."

The judge kept talking, laying out the technicalities (and laying a fine on Spencer for breaking the sumptuary laws, which made a small, mean part of Clara very, very happy), but it was almost as though someone had plugged her ears with cotton, or as though she was listening to the world from underwater.

And then the judges finished speaking. "Adjourned!" barked the florid man, and banged the gavel on the table.

The sharp noise of wood on wood brought her out of the daze, and suddenly the world was rushing back into her ears with a violent tide of sound. Clara remained stone-still, almost unable to move. It felt like heavy weights had been attached to her limbs, holding her motionless even as her mind whirled around everything she learned like the tides of the ocean around a sinking ship. She'd lost her son, but her son's lands were hers to steward until he was a man grown. She'd only wanted Arthur, and Spencer had only wanted the land and the income associated therewith. There was an opportunity here, she knew that much... she just didn't know what it was or how to grasp it.

She was distantly aware of Benedict taking her arm and leading her out of the courtroom, and of Marion grasping her hand and starting to weep a little; Clara paid them little mind, more occupied with the puzzle of how to salvage something out of the shipwreck.

Her ears pricked as she heard her name, and she pulled herself out of her daze enough to realise that George Spencer was cursing her. She glanced after him, watching him storm away through the crowds, looking about as unhappy about the outcome of the hearing as Clara was. "...blasted Tyrell woman! This is her fault," Spencer was snarling.

Almost unconsciously, Clara pulled away from her brother and her sister-in-law and followed after the man who was to take her son away, sliding through the crowd like an eel through the river. Distantly, she heard Ben and Marion calling after her, but she kept after Spencer, bringing him back into earshot.

"...ruined everything!" he was ranting to the young man with him. "I could strangle that meddling, mousey little bitch!"

"I don't understand, sir," the boy spoke up timidly as they burst out into the courtyard. "Didn't you win? You've got the boy's wardship—"

"It means nothing!" Spencer snarled, pausing in the shadow of the building. "Without the income from his lands, he's just another mouth to feed! And that puking mother of his will have all his money locked up tighter than a Spanish nun's legs. Not that it matters—I have to scrape together 300 pounds just to purchase a wardship that will now only make me maybe five hundred pounds per annum! I haven't got that kind of money!" he hissed, and Clara was sure she wasn't imagining the desperation in his voice. "Not now!"

A spark of bright hope flared to life in Clara's stomach.

"Christ almighty, I shouldn't have bought that sable cloak," Spencer groaned, starting to walk towards the gate back out into the London streets. "I shouldn't have bought that wine for the inn, nor that beef. I shouldn't have worn this, either—they're fucking fining me! Goddammit! I'm going to have to get the money somehow. With the boy's lands all tied up in trust, I don't know how willing my bankers will be to front me any more cash. I just pray God I don't have to go begging to Boleyn," he added unhappily, before going through the gate and out of her hearing.

Clara slowly drew back into the stone building, where she discovered Ben and Marion waiting for her, watching her silently as she approached. She pulled them into an alcove, away from the other people moving around the halls, and drew them close. What she had to say to them should not be overheard. "I need to go to court," she announced softly, without preamble.

Ben just blinked at her, but Marion's jaw dropped. "What?" she asked, stunned.

"Ben, I need you to get me into Whitehall," Clara repeated quietly. "Or tell me how to get in myself. There's someone I need to talk to, in the palace, as soon as possible—before the day is out. I might have an idea of how to get Arthur back, but I can't do it alone."

"We can help," Marion immediately offered. "There's nothing I wouldn't do to keep Arthur with us."

Clara shook her head. "You can't help with this. I have to go to court."

Benedict looked conflicted—probably because he had a very, very good idea of just why she wanted to go to court... and who she was hoping to see. "I can get you in, but he might be busy," he warned. Only Ben and Clara knew that the "he" referred to was Thomas Cromwell. "And I thought you were trying to keep things... discreet? Isn't approaching him in the middle of Whitehall and before the very reason for your discretion somewhat... indiscreet?"

"I'll be careful," Clara assured him. "It's a gamble, I admit, but if he can help me now I think I can get Arthur back. I heard Spencer saying he hasn't got the money to pay for the wardship," she added in a voice so low that only her brother would hear. Benedict's green eyes immediately brightened with understanding. "You see? The judges said we're to sign the papers tomorrow, and if Spencer hasn't got the money... I have to know what happens if he can't pay, and if there's anything I can do to ensure that Arthur comes back to me when he can't. And only Thomas can tell me that."

"What are you talking about?" Marion demanded, stepping closer to try to hear—so close that her body was pressed all along Clara's arm. "Clara, what's going on?"

"I'm going to court," Clara replied to her sister-in-law, though she kept her eyes locked on her brother.

"They won't just let you in," Marion protested. She paused, and glanced uncertainly over at Benedict. "They won't just let her in... will they?"

"Well, no," Ben admitted, looking uncomfortable. "They won't let her in... but it's not very hard to sneak in, either."

At that, both Ben and Clara glanced at Marion, who gave a gusty sigh and threw up her hands. "Well, I suppose I can't come," the blonde surmised sourly. "Shall I wait here for you to finish your cloak-and-dagger antics, or would you rather I totter back to our lodgings? Or is there somewhere else you'd prefer to leave me?"

"I'm not doing this to hurt you, Mari," Clara said quietly. "I'm only doing what has to be done."

Marion sighed again, and nodded. "I understand," she said, but her voice was still bitter. "What are you going to do with me, then?"

"I'll see her back to Agnes' house," Ben offered chivalrously. "Technically, I have no business at Whitehall either; you'll do just as well with me as without me. Possibly better—no one will ask why I'm there."

"What will happen if you're caught?" Marion asked fretfully, before turning to look at Ben. "What will happen if she's caught?"

"The worst that happens is that she gets escorted out of Whitehall proper," Ben replied, trying to be soothing. "But I doubt that will happen. Clara's a fairly good sneaker. If you are caught by anyone, tell them I sent you with a message for George Talbot regarding a position in the king's household," he added to his sister. "I have been talking with him about such a thing, so it wouldn't be unexpected... I hope."

"I'll just try not to be caught," Clara remarked after an awkward pause.

"That would be best," Ben agreed.

With some vague pointers about navigating Whitehall, Ben bid Clara good luck. Marion embraced her once, tightly, and then released her. Clara didn't wait to see them off; instead, she started westwards, as fast as she could go without sprinting outright.

Finally, she reached the gates of Whitehall Palace and tried to slow her breathing and look as though she hadn't just been running through London. Praise God the last couple of days had been dry; at least her new dress wasn't splattered with mud. Once she had cooled slightly, she straightened her gown and her hood and fell confidently into step behind a group of well-dressed young women who were headed for the palace. Even in her new dress, Clara still looked quite plain in comparison, but at least she was more on the level—had she tried to sneak into court in her old gowns, she'd likely have been thrown out on her ear.

The guards let her pass without incident—without even looking at her, for that matter—and Clara relaxed infinitesimally. The more difficult part was still ahead, though. She was inside the palace; now she had to find Cromwell. And given the size of the king's residence, that was not going to be an easy task.

But Clara just moved briskly through the main doors and began to pass through the galleries as Ben had suggested, keeping her ears keen for any mention of the king's secretary. Meanwhile, her eyes drank in her surroundings eagerly. She'd never been to court before, and she marvelled at the opulence of the furnishings, the richness of the clothing, the brightness of the jewels adorning the courtiers, the din of so many people around her, the faint strains of music she could hear above the chatter... it was both overwhelming and exhilarating. And, she added honestly, quite intimidating as well. There were so many people, and she felt very much out of place, as though everyone could tell with a mere glance that she was not supposed to be here. She also felt shabby and plain, even in her new dress—everyone else was dressed so finely, in silks and velvets and brocades of all hues.

_Just find Cromwell and leave_, she told herself firmly. _And be glad you don't live here_.

It was hard to weed through everything she was hearing and sort out the important things—there were so many people talking, and all at once, on so many different subjects!—and the sheer amount of noise in the gallery was making her head ache. But finally Clara was able to pick out a few key phrases—Master Secretary and privy closet being the most prominent among them—and turned her steps that way, trying to keep to the fringes of the throng. She passed through two more galleries before being stopped by a pair of men-at-arms in the king's red and gold livery.

"You cannot pass through here, madam," the man on the left—a huge, burly man with a red-gold beard—informed her.

"I pray you, forgive me," she apologised meekly. She was beginning to think this was a bad idea. Whitehall was utterly massive, and teeming with people; how could she discreetly find one man in all this mess, let alone have a private conversation?

That is, if Thomas would even see her. If these were the waters in which he swam daily, if this was the backdrop against which he belonged and the people with whom he rubbed elbows, Clara was surprised he'd ever deigned to notice her at all. For all that she was better-born than he was, she was still an insignificant countrified widow, and he was secretary to the King of England himself. She had no place here among these glamorous, powerful people. And at the moment, she felt just like the insignificant little mouse everyone always said she was.

But then she rallied, and mustered her courage. This was for Arthur—she was doing this for Arthur. "I... do you know where I can find Master Cromwell?" she asked timidly.

The man directed her to her left, where she discovered another gallery and a door guarded by another set of men-at-arms and a young man in clerical black, all of whom were dealing with a throng of petitioners, collecting their letters and sending them away with a polite word. Well, Cromwell was a powerful, busy man, Clara allowed.

She made her way to the door from the side, and got the attention of the young clerk. "Is this where Master Secretary is?" she asked.

"Yes," the young man nodded. "Have you a petition for him?"

"I..." This was an unforeseen complication. "Well, I was hoping I might be able to speak with him, for a moment."

"Master Secretary Cromwell is a busy man, madam," the clerk replied, trying not to be impatient, though his brusqueness was apparent in his tone.

"Can you... if you have a moment—if he has a moment, will you ask if he would be willing to spare a moment for a friend?" she inquired awkwardly.

The clerk looked ready to refuse, then stopped short. He looked her up and down with narrowed eyes, then sighed. "When I have a moment, I will ask," he acquiesced. "Whom should I say is here?"

She'd prepared for just this question, pondering over what to say as she'd run through London, knowing she couldn't give her true name within the walls of the palace but needing to let Thomas know it was Clara Tyrell who was there. "Tell Master Cromwell that Mistress Igraine Ardley has come about Alice and Joan," was what she'd decided to say. Igraine was the mother of King Arthur in the legends; Ardley was Clara's home, and Cromwell knew it; and Alice and Joan would hopefully tie the lot together and let her friend know that it was Clara who needed to see him, even if she couldn't say it outright.

"I will inform him," the clerk said dismissively, waving her away.

Clara went, although she didn't go far, huddling against one of the panelled walls within sight of the door and trying to make herself invisible. If she could've sunk into the floor and disappeared, she would've. She felt small and inferior to every single person within the palace walls, and fragile, as though the wrong look or word would send her into pieces on the floor. And this was added to the desperation that had been dogging her steps since she heard Spencer's lament about his finances and the lurking, powerful anguish that had been welling up inside her since she heard the judges' ruling: _the wardship of Arthur Tyrell of Ardley, Leicestershire, is to be granted to George Spencer of Peasemore, Berkshire_. She was keeping the grief away with the hope that there was something she could do to reverse or challenge the ruling, but it was there, roiling under the surface of her thoughts and ready to rise up and take her.

She closed her eyes and rested her head against the panelling behind her, trying to regulate her breathing as she listened to the talk around her. There were so many people talking, so many words to process, so many things to pay attention to. How did Thomas manage nearly every single day in this place? Then again, his ears weren't as acute as hers (for all they were larger), so it probably wasn't as overwhelming for him. It wasn't like it was the volume of noise, either—London was louder, and she'd managed living there for nearly a decade—but more the whispers and murmurs. The court was rife with them, as though it was the very heartbeat of the entire place.

A familiar voice made its way to her ears, and she opened her eyes. No sign of Thomas, but the same black-clad clerk from earlier was emerging from the chamber beyond the door and casting his eyes around. Looking for her? Clara detached herself from the wall and stepped forth; the clerk's young face brightened, and he beckoned her over.

"Mistress Ardley," the youth acknowledged as she approached. "Master Secretary Cromwell will see you now."

He ushered her into a room that wasn't so much a closet as a small gallery, with windows and tables piled high with papers. The weak sunlight was streaming through the diamond-pane glass and illuminating the papers and the set of under-clerks therein as best it could, considering they were both garbed in black and other such sombre hues (not that she was one to talk).

And there was Thomas, coming towards her with an extremely faint smile on his face, which was otherwise set in impassive lines. "Good day to you, madam," he said evenly, taking her arm and leading her to the back of the closet, out a door into a sparsely populated corridor Clara hadn't even known was there and to a small, secluded alcove with bare stone walls. She felt even more apprehensive as they were left alone together—was he angry with her for coming? Was that why he wasn't looking at her, and why he had practically no expression on his face at all?

Once they were hidden from view, Thomas' face relaxed only slightly, and only in the lines around his grey eyes, which thawed infinitesimally when he looked at her. Clara had never before really realised how much he lowered his barriers at his home before she'd seen him here. Though she'd long known that Thomas Cromwell was a private, taciturn, reserved man, he was practically wearing his heart right out on his sleeve when he was with her in Shoreditch as compared to how he appeared now, at court. There was not a single thing on his face for her to read.

"You know it was terribly risky to come here... 'Igraine'," Cromwell (because this was Secretary Cromwell with her now, not her friend Thomas) remarked lowly, his smooth tones utterly impersonal and emotionless, save for the amused twist when he pronounced her pseudonym. "Although, to be perfectly frank, I wondered whether or not I might hear of you seeking me out one of these days. Especially after learning of your escapades in Charing."

Clara flushed red. "I know this was a terrible risk, both for you and for me. But I needed to see you immediately. Thomas, they gave him to Spencer," she whispered, her voice a mix of anger and anguish.

Cromwell placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. "I can't challenge the ruling for you, Clara," he warned her lowly.

"And I'm not asking you to," she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. Truthfully, she'd never even considered the idea. Arthur was her son, and she didn't expect anyone else to fight for him. "I may not even need to challenge anything. Listen," she insisted, when Cromwell arched an eyebrow slightly. "The judges gave Arthur to Spencer, but they gave the Tyrell lands to me—they're to be held in trust, under my stewardship, until Arthur comes of age. And I overheard Spencer saying that he hasn't got the money for the wardship fees. We're to sign the papers tomorrow and make it all official, and I know there's an opportunity here, but I just can't figure out what it is!" she finished, her whispered words growing harsh. She looked imploringly up at him. "I know I must do something—I mean, I suppose I could just wait and see what happens, but I have a feeling Spencer will be able to get money from somewhere... he said something about going begging to Boleyn—and I'm not sure what the best course of action is. Thomas, what is your advice?"

Cromwell's grey eyes were glittering and the very corner of his thin lips curled upwards—he understood what a magnificent opportunity had been handed her. "My advice is that you find Master Spencer and see if you can't strike a deal," he recommended quietly, though resolutely. "Volunteer to pay for the wardship yourself in return for some rights to Arthur."

Clara blinked at him blankly as she processed that suggestion. Was he implying that she should pay for a man she hated to raise her only child? Give up, and let that repulsive toad have her son?

"I see what you're thinking," Cromwell interrupted quietly, making Clara scowl slightly. He always knew what she was thinking, and only occasionally did she have any inkling about him. "But that is your best bet. I have absolutely no doubt that Spencer will get the money somehow. Better that you give him your son on your terms, rather than his. If you provide the solution to his problem, you will have something to bargain with. Do you understand?"

"I don't like it, but I understand," she murmured, nodding slowly. This was why she came to him, after all. Thomas didn't lie to her about these things, and he had a better handle on these kinds of back-and-forth deals. "What should I be bargaining for, do you think?"

"A measure of control over Arthur's education, future placement, and future marriage," was Cromwell's instant reply. "Those are what you ought to secure at all costs. Everything else is marzipan lions. But start high—ask for total control over your son, and let Spencer bargain you down to joint custody. And if he doesn't bargain at all, so much better. Don't ask, don't get," he added, his lips quirking faintly upward.

She considered that for a moment, and thought she had a good grasp on why her input on her son's education, placement, and marriage should be what she strove to have. If she had a say in those things, she would have a say in the kind of man Arthur would become. In a way, it would be as though he was still hers—Spencer would have a much harder time turning her son into a miniature of himself if he had to share control of Arthur's life. It would almost be like she was still raising her son... albeit from far away.

"All right," she said softly, nodding again in acknowledgement of the counsel. "Thank you, Thomas. I do hope you're not too angry that I came to see you like this, but I really did need your advice."

"I'm not angry," Cromwell assured her, giving a swift, quicksilver smile that revealed her friend Thomas under the court mask. "As I said, I half-expected you to turn up here sooner or later, given what I've been learning about that charming little reckless streak of yours."

Clara felt her cheeks grow warm as her heart gave a little thud in her chest. Thomas kept doing that to her—tossing her those little compliments in such a casual, throwaway tone that she couldn't doubt their sincerity. And the way he looked at her, sometimes—the way he was looking at her now...

From time to time, Clara thought Thomas Cromwell was like the ocean. And when he looked at her like he did, and the air between them grew tense and hot, she thought he was the ocean and he was pulling her under. And sometimes, when his grey eyes grew dark and intense as they looked into her, as though he was seeing down into her very soul, Clara was full willing to drown. Worse, she was ready to throw herself heedlessly right into the very heart of the ocean, if it would only open its arms for her.

She supposed she should be glad that Thomas was such a private, self-contained man.

"I should go see if I can't find Spencer," Clara demurred, pulling away to lean against the stone walls, suddenly very aware that she and an attractive, available man were once again dallying in hidden, shadowy corners. And she wondered why she kept doing this to herself—placing herself into temptation, so to speak.

And then she wondered just when Thomas Cromwell had become temptation.

Something in those starry grey eyes closed—something which, she realised now, she hadn't even noticed was open—and Cromwell stepped back. Perhaps he, too, realised what a dangerous line they were treading. "With that, I'm afraid, I cannot help you," he returned lightly. "But I wish you the very best of luck. God be with you... Lady Igraine." And with a wry little smirk, he was gone, heading back to his duties.

Clara tarried in the alcove and listened to his footsteps recede, feeling as though they were almost in time with her pounding heart. Then she drew her composure around her like a cloak, took a deep breath, and left the alcove herself, following the sound of large groups of people as she tried to find her way back from whence she'd come. She'd go back to The Bell first, and see if Spencer was there in his lodgings; if he was not, she would make further inquiries, leave a message for the man, and go from there.

But as she made her way briskly through the main gallery, back towards the gates of Whitehall, a familiar voice made her stop dead, feeling as though she'd just fallen off a roof again.

"Why, that's never Clara? Clara Tyrell?"

She swallowed thickly, fighting down the urge to vomit as her stomach swooped and dropped, before turning with a sickly smile on her face. "Sir Thomas! God give you good afternoon," she replied weakly.

Sir Thomas More approached her with a kindly smile on his handsome face and, once he was before her, took her hands in his. "What a surprise to see you here, Clara," he remarked, and Clara wished he'd stop saying her name. "What brings you to Whitehall?"

"Er... I needed some advice," Clara replied hesitantly. "I... that is, I was in court today..."

"Ah yes, for young Arthur's wardship," More realised, interrupting her halting speech. "Well, now are you are a lawyer, Mistress Mouse. How did you fare?" he inquired teasingly, taking her arm and leading her back into Whitehall, apparently settling in for a long conversation.

Clara could do nothing but follow along after. "The judges gave Arthur to Master Spencer, but left the Tyrell lands to me," she replied nervously.

That brought More up short, right in the middle of the gallery, and made him look at her in surprise. Everyone else was looking at her in surprise, too, obviously curious—just who was this woman with Thomas More? Clara wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor. Or become invisible. Or run. "They ruled to give the boy to him, but the lands to you?" he repeated incredulously.

"Master Spencer was believed to be an unfit steward, given his habits of free-spending and his extensive debts, gambling and otherwise," Clara explained stiffly, offended by Sir Thomas' incredulity and his dismissal of her son as 'the boy', annoyed by his indiscretion regarding her presence here and his use of the hated moniker of "mouse", and made deeply uncomfortable by the scrutiny of what seemed like every courtier in the gallery. What would Cromwell's clerks think if the lady they knew as Igraine Ardley was revealed to be someone else entirely? What if the Boleyns got word of the deception, and made trouble? "In fact, he does not now even have the funds to purchase Arthur's wardship."

"Well, I suppose that is a boon for you," More commented, raising his brows over his twinkling dark eyes as he started walking and pulled Clara along with him.

"Yes, but I'm unsure of what to do with it," Clara admitted as he led them through an archway into a more secluded corridor that was still full of more people than she was really comfortable with.

"I didn't realise you had to do anything with it," was More's reply, a faint smile playing around his lips. "Master Spencer won't be able to pay the fee, and you'll have your son by default."

"Well yes," she allowed. "But I was... I thought there might be... surprises. And I wanted to... er. Prepare for them, so to speak."

"That's quite insightful of you," More praised, sounding surprised that she would think of such a thing. Clara wasn't sure if she should be flattered at the compliment or affronted by his astonishment.

In the end, she didn't have to make any such decision, because both her and Sir Thomas' attention was pulled elsewhere in the most impolite fashion possible.

"You!"

Clara stiffened noticeably, grimacing at the sound of the familiar voice while Sir Thomas turned to see the source of the commotion.

Well, at least she wouldn't need to go looking for George Spencer.

She glanced around More's shoulder at the sound of clomping footsteps to see Spencer bearing down upon them, trailed by an older, finely-dressed, white-haired man, looking just as vexed at Spencer's uncouth behaviour as Clara was.

"Lord Rochford," Sir Thomas greeted coolly, putting a name to the white-haired man. "And... Master Spencer, I presume?"

Clara froze, her eyes going to the man who was, as far as she knew, the architect of all this trouble: Thomas Boleyn, Viscount Rochford. She stared at him, wide-eyed, cataloguing the infamous Boleyn as Thomas More exchanged meaningless pleasantries with the other men. Her opinion was that Thomas Boleyn was handsome and well-dressed, but cold. Everything about him was cold and hard. He had thick silvery-white hair and icy blue eyes, both of which he set off to their best advantage with rich jewels and fine cloth. His features were even and handsome, but the expression upon them (deliberately amiable, at the moment) could not hide their hardness, or the naked ambition in his pale eyes. And when she looked at him, Clara thought she could almost hear the abacus clicking in his head as he tallied up everyone and everything around him, and mused on how to best use it for himself.

This was, she concluded, a man to fear.

And she'd gone and set herself against him.

She was jolted out of her thoughts when Spencer, red-faced and still visibly seething with rage, grabbed her arm and spun her around, slamming her into the wall. "You think you've won, you forward strumpet?" he snarled into her face. Already, this early in the day, the smell of wine was strong on his breath.

Then Boleyn and More were behind Spencer, pulling him bodily away from her as she stared up at him, shocked that even such a stupid man as Spencer would offer violence to a lady here, in front of all these people—including his own patron and Sir Thomas More.

"Control yourself," she heard Boleyn hiss into Spencer's ear as he pulled the smaller man back, be-ringed fingers clenched tightly on Spencer's arm. "If you are so foolish as to assault that woman within the very precincts of Whitehall and get yourself arrested, I'll not lift a finger to help you. Do you understand? Spencer, getting you this wardship is the last thing I will ever do for you, and if you ruin it now that is the end of it." Spencer began to slow his breathing and forcibly calmed himself, nodding in acknowledgement.

Meanwhile, More had pulled Clara away, and was trying to get her attention, finally taking her chin in his hand and turning her face up to his. His eyes were concerned as they looked into hers, and his face set in indignant lines on her behalf. It was almost heart-warming. "Clara, are you all right?" The tone of his voice indicated this was not the first time he'd put that question to her.

"I'm fine," Clara replied absently, still focussed mostly on what was happening between Boleyn and Spencer. There was another opportunity here, and this time she didn't need Cromwell to tell her what it was... although she did wish that he was here with her.

Lord Rochford and Spencer were now coming back her way; Boleyn's face was hard and he kept a tight hold on Spencer's arm, and Spencer had a deliberately contrite expression on his face which did not hide the rage still burning in his hazel eyes.

Sir Thomas kept a hand on her back as he turned to face the two approaching men, as though he was making it clear she was under his protection. "I trust, Master Spencer, that you are prepared to ask Clara's forgiveness—and that you, Lord Rochford, are prepared to ensure that such blatant incivility does not happen again?" he inquired grimly.

"Indeed I am," Boleyn replied, voice cold and sharp as he thrust Spencer forward.

"I apologise for my rudeness, Lady Tyrell, and do heartily beg your forgiveness," Spencer said quietly, and she could barely tell that he was grinding his teeth together as he spoke.

"Thank you," Clara returned, saying nothing either way about accepting his apology or not. Truthfully, she'd prefer to punch him in the face—and she knew how to, now—but she needed to keep the moral high ground. "Though if this sort of behaviour is common, Master Spencer, I worry about what sorts of things you will teach my son. That is, if you can drum up the money to afford his wardship at all."

Spencer's head snapped up, and he snarled wordlessly at her, baring his teeth. "How do you know about that?" he demanded harshly.

"I listen," Clara replied serenely. She took in a breath and drummed up her courage. "And I may have a solution to your problem... that is, if you can hold your temper long enough to hear it."

Suddenly, all three men's eyes were fixed on her. Spencer's hazel eyes were overflowing with loathing; More's dark eyes were flickering with comprehension and shock; and Boleyn... Thomas Boleyn's arctic blue eyes were sharp and keen, and it was as though he was seeing her for the first time. Clara quailed under their scrutiny, feeling a terrified trembling in her stomach, but refused to back down. If she was strong and brave and clever now, she could manage to keep more of her son than she would otherwise be allowed.

"We are listening, Lady Tyrell," Boleyn said softly, his voice smoothing out into charming courtier's tones. Somehow, that terrified her even worse than his glacial sharpness.

Clara fixed her eyes on Spencer, who was the only man of the three who didn't frighten her. "I am offering to pay the wardship fee myself... but in return, I want charge of Arthur's future education, his future placement, and his future marriage. I also want to see him whenever I want, and I want to spend Christmas with him every year, in Leicestershire or wherever else I may be."

"No," Spencer refused immediately. "You may as well keep the boy yourself in that case. I'll get the money elsewhere."

Boleyn suddenly clamped a hand back down on Spencer's arm, and gave Sir Thomas and Clara a charming smile. "I pray you, excuse us for a moment," he requested, before dragging Spencer away to a recessed window.

Once they were a ways away, Thomas More looked down at Clara and remarked, sounding both appalled and impressed, "You certainly have much more gumption than I ever gave you credit for, Clara. I suppose I should ask who it is you've been going to for advice."

"I'm a mother fighting for her child, Sir Thomas," Clara replied inattentively, straining her ears to hear what Boleyn and Spencer were talking about. "I doubt I am unique among women—most mothers would surely do the same."

"...be a fool," Boleyn was saying to Spencer, his voice cool and dry, like a snake sliding across the sand. "That woman is offering you a way out of a dilemma to which your own imprudence has brought you, and you'd be a complete idiot not to accept it."

"Did you not hear what she wanted, my Lord?" Spencer complained. "She'll be controlling everything in the boy's life in addition to all his lands. All I'd be doing is lodging him!"

"I fail to see the problem," Boleyn replied coldly. "You would still be receiving a portion of the income from his lands, would you not?"

Spencer's voice sounded small, meek, and wheedling as he spoke to his patron. It was a welcome change from his previous arrogance, and it warmed Clara's heart to hear it. "Well yes, but—"

"Frankly, Spencer, I think this is the best offer you are going to get," Boleyn went on, ignoring his client's weak protests. "If the woman is willing to pay the fee in return for more control over her boy, let her. Bargain her down to joint guardianship if you must—and I have a feeling that is what she wants to do in any case—but make the deal. You are not in a position any longer where you can afford to stand on your pride, and I am not of a mind to pay for the consequences of your thoughtless extravagance. I advise you, most strongly, to accept the deal you are being offered, so that I do not have to keep throwing my money away on your behalf." His voice turned scornful and sharp. "I got you this wardship in deference to your late cousin and the former connection between our families, but through your own folly you've squandered the opportunity I so graciously provided. I will help you bargain with the woman—who frankly, Spencer, has outfoxed you most thoroughly—but after this is settled, I wash my hands of you."

Clara wished she could see Spencer's face as he was summarily dressed-down by Thomas Boleyn. As it was, she was having a hard time keeping the triumphant, satisfied smile from showing on hers.

Thomas More noted it. "You seem pleased," he commented, sounding slightly confused.

"I have a good feeling, Sir Thomas," she replied lowly, knowing he would scold her for eavesdropping if she confessed. "I think Spencer will be agreeable to making a deal."

More placed his hands on her shoulders, and turned her to face him. The expression on his face was solemn and earnest, as was his voice as he warned her, "Have a care, Clara. Spencer is one of Rochford's clients—you're not just getting a victory over Spencer, but over Boleyn as well, and he won't take too kindly to being shown up by a woman."

A sliver of fear deflated the happy bubble in her chest, and Clara nodded seriously, marking Sir Thomas' very valid words. "I will be careful," she promised softly, hearing Boleyn and Spencer end their private conference and move to return to her. "Thank you for your warning, Sir Thomas."

More nodded and released her with a gentle pat, and they both turned and watched the approach of Clara's adversaries. Spencer's handsome face was still mottled red from both anger and embarrassment, whereas Boleyn looked as cool and calm as a serpent in the shade. And it was he who spoke first, announcing, "Master Spencer is amenable to discussing your proposal, Lady Tyrell."

"I am very glad to hear it so, my Lord," Clara replied softly, somehow even more afraid of the man now than before. How dangerous was he, that even Thomas More was warning her about crossing him?

"I'm not letting you have full control over the boy's entire life," Spencer informed her bluntly. "I'll let you have charge of his education, but not his marriage, and I will take your opinion into account when it comes time to send him to a noble household, but no more."

"No," Clara rejected, setting her jaw and preparing to bargain. "Opinions can easily be ignored. Give me control of his education and his marriage, and I'll allow you to decide his placement."

Spencer rolled his hazel eyes. "Madam, don't insult me..."

She and Spencer dickered back and forth, pushing and pulling and fighting over who would command Arthur Tyrell's future. Thomas More and Thomas Boleyn watched them go at it, occasionally making a statement or asking a question that would tip the balance one way or another, but for the most part it was Clara Tyrell against George Spencer, with her desperate love for her son against his furious pride. During the haggling, Arthur's education was generally relinquished into Clara's hands, especially with Thomas More behind her; meanwhile, Spencer fought so hard for Arthur's marriage that Clara wondered if he had a daughter in mind for her son.

In the end, they agreed on joint management for nearly all aspects of Arthur's upbringing. His education was left to Clara, but only with Spencer's approval; his marriage was to be seen to by Spencer, but only with Clara's consent. They would both have to agree on where Arthur was to be sent when he was old enough, whether it be to the Duke of Norfolk's household as his mother had done, or whether he might be honoured with a place at court. Lady Tyrell would be allowed to visit her son in Berkshire at least once a season, pending Spencer's approval; Spencer would have to let Arthur spend Christmas with his mother. It was a deal that was acceptable to both of them, and yet did not truly satisfy either.

"So what now, Lady Tyrell?" Spencer asked sourly, speaking her name as though it was a curse. Apparently he was upset that he'd been forced into so much compromise.

Clara glanced up at Sir Thomas, whose dark eyes were warm as he regarded her. "Perhaps you can assist me, Sir Thomas?" she asked modestly. "I believe we will need a Bible to swear upon... and we will of course need to write and sign a contract putting forth the terms of our agreement."

Because there was far too much possibility for abuse. George Spencer would have physical possession of her son, and if she did not safeguard her rights Clara knew she could very easily be sidelined and ignored, or presented with a fait accompli when it was too late for her to do anything but assent, if she did not do something to safeguard her hard-won rights over Arthur.

"Now you go too far!" Spencer burst out angrily. "A contract in addition to an oath? God's blood, you insult me!"

"I do no such thing, and I do apologise if my words were taken thusly," Clara said softly, but with a steely edge. "But I do not trust you, Master Spencer, and will not pretend otherwise. An oath and a contract."

"While unorthodox," Sir Thomas interjected calmly, "Lady Tyrell's requests are not unreasonable—especially given the treatment she has received at your hands, Master Spencer." Spencer's face mottled red in suppressed anger, and Clara ducked her head so he wouldn't see the smirk on her lips. "If it is amenable to you, Clara, and to yourselves," More added, addressing Spencer and Boleyn, "I will draw up the contract now, and we can have this all settled by supper."

"I am amenable," Clara agreed, smiling up at him.

"Very well," Spencer agreed, considerably more surly.

Boleyn cast Spencer a sharp look before turning back to More with a smile. "We are grateful for your time, Sir Thomas," he said politely.

With a nod, More took Clara's arm and led her out into the main gallery... and then back the exact same path she'd trodden to find Cromwell not an hour ago. He was leading them back to the Secretary's closet. She wasn't sure if she should be fearful of the recurrence (and terrified that someone would address her as Igraine) or amused at the irony.

"Thank you for this, Sir Thomas," Clara whispered up to More as they passed through the second set of doors, pausing to let Lord Rochford pass through them first due to the demands of precedence, and her eyes were drawn unconsciously to the shadowed alcove where she and Cromwell had spoken privately. "Helping me, I mean. I am very grateful for your assistance."

Sir Thomas smiled warmly down at her, and patted her hand. "It is my pleasure, Clara. Having met the man, I can well understand your determination to fight," he replied, equally quiet with a wry twist to his mouth. Clara laughed silently, and fought down her nervousness as More directed them through the doors into the room where Cromwell and two other clerks were at work—the same room into which she had been ushered as Igraine Ardley.

Cromwell looked up from where he was sorting a pile of letters as they walked into the room. "Lord Rochford," he acknowledged, bowing deeply from the waist in deference to the viscount. Then he caught sight of the others trailing along after, and his eyebrows climbed slightly up his forehead. "And Sir Thomas. And...?"

"This is Lady Clara Tyrell, and that is Master George Spencer," Boleyn introduced dismissively. Did she imagine the slight wince in Cromwell's shoulders as she was named Clara? She certainly didn't imagine the confusion in the young clerk to whom she'd given her name as Igraine, and she prayed fervently that he'd keep his mouth shut.

Cromwell gave them a short bow, before turning back to Boleyn. "What may I do for your lordship today?" he inquired politely.

"If you don't mind, Cromwell, we need to compose a brief contract," Sir Thomas explained genially. "Could we trouble you for some parchment and a quill?"

"Of course, Sir Thomas," Cromwell nodded, setting down his papers and moving to clear a table against the far wall. "I am at your disposal."

Within moments, More had been set up with parchment, inkwell, and quill, and was setting down the outline of the contract between Clara and Spencer. Clara hung back behind him, leaning up against the wall and feeling unspeakably awkward, wishing once again that the floor would open up beneath her and swallow her whole. She was sitting at the nexus of several secrets she was keeping (and one lie she'd told), and hoping like mad that they wouldn't collide. She was extremely aware of Cromwell's presence in the closet with them, and had to keep reminding herself not to look at him. She was also trying not to fidget under Spencer's virulent glare and Boleyn's chilly, measuring stare. It was all so extremely nerve-wracking she felt as though she might vomit. (Not that there was anything in her stomach to bring up; she'd been too nervous to eat breakfast, and had missed dinner as well.)

After nearly two hours and a couple of drafts—during which Thomas Cromwell, sitting on the other side of the room, muttered encouragement and advice too quietly for anyone but Clara to hear—Thomas More had produced a contract which both Clara and Spencer were content with. It set down the agreed upon tenets, in which Clara would provide the money Spencer needed to pay for Arthur Tyrell's wardship, and in return she was given joint custody over her son and his future education, placement, and marriage.

Spencer, however, had also thrown in a very controversial condition of his own that had Clara ready to scratch out his eyes.

"If Lady Tyrell proves herself an unfit mother, through her behaviour or morals or even her manner of dress, I want it set down that this entire contract is rendered null and void, and her rights to her son revert entirely to me," Spencer demanded.

Clara glared at him furiously. "Calm down, Clara—he's trying to provoke you," Cromwell warned softly as he worked on a piece of correspondence at a desk, appearing to ignore the intruders in his domain but actually paying close attention. His voice, audible only to her, banked her ire, and she pressed her lips shut before she could say anything objectionable.

Spencer was smirking at her, happy that one of barbs had struck home. Sir Thomas, seated at the desk, just raised a brow. "Can you perhaps be a little more specific, Master Spencer?" he inquired, his tone even. Only because Clara knew him could she hear the lurking amusement in his voice, unsure again whether she should be upset with him. Was he laughing at her, or at Spencer's transparent attempts to provoke her?

"I'd think his demands are fairly plain," Boleyn interjected, sliding into the conversation like a stiletto between someone's ribs. "If Lady Tyrell proves herself to be less than virtuous, Master Spencer has a right to assume full responsibility over her... impressionable son."

"Don't agree, Clara," Cromwell murmured from across the room, knowing that she could hear him. "It's too imprecise. Who will rule upon your conduct, and whether or not it be virtuous? And how is 'virtue' to be defined?"

"No. It's far too imprecise a condition. Who is to determine whether or not my conduct is to be called virtuous?" Clara demanded angrily, offended by the implications. She pointed scornfully at Spencer, who was smirking at her. "Him? And how are we to define virtue, anyway?" _Other than 'anything Master Spencer is not'_, she added tartly to herself.

"Surely 'virtue' needs no definition," Boleyn replied piously, widening his ice-blue eyes and bowing his head. A muscle twitched in Thomas More's jaw at that.

"I would think it more to Master Spencer's benefit that we stringently define 'virtue', since his own morals appear to be wanting," Clara shot back indignantly. How dare that man—that spendthrift lecher!—question her morals!

"To say nothing of your own, madam," Spencer sneered. "I wonder how you have acquired all this legal expertise—who gave it to you, and how you paid for it."

Clara froze. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, it's plain that you're being advised by someone," Spencer spat. "I see it! You think a moment, and then say something only a trained lawyer would know." He mimicked the expression she got when she was listening intently to something, and gave a bark of scornful laugher. "Who's been coaching you, I wonder? And how've they been signalling you?" The inflection he put on the word 'signalling' and the leer he cast at Sir Thomas More implied clearer than words what he thought.

It felt like her stomach had fallen to her feet, and Clara swallowed around the lump in her throat. He'd noticed her listening to Cromwell. Either she'd been unsubtle, or Spencer was more observant than she'd given him credit for—maybe both. Admittedly, he'd come to a completely ludicrous conclusion (only an idiot would believe Sir Thomas More, with his well-known reputation for honesty and virtue, would commit adultery with anyone), but... well, there was the smallest grain of truth in his implications. She had been getting advice and coaching, and she had been paying for it (albeit with her mind instead of her body); Spencer had only accused the wrong Thomas.

She knew her face had gone pale, and knew Spencer thought he'd struck gold. "Calm down, Clara," she heard Cromwell say softly. "He can prove nothing. But I had better remain silent from here on out... and you had better agree to his conditions." Perhaps he was just as spooked as she was.

"I should've expected such uncouth insinuations from you, Master Spencer," Clara retorted shakily. "And yet I am surprised."

"It really is an entirely absurd prospect," Thomas More agreed coolly, "insulting not only Lady Tyrell's honour, but also my own." His dark eyes were burning, and fixed unerringly on Spencer, reminding everyone of the strength under the amiability.

Spencer offered up a trite apology, bowing his head to Sir Thomas, but once he raised his head his eyes went right back to Clara, and the very corner of his lips twisted up into a smirk. She returned it with a look of the purest loathing.

Sir Thomas, perhaps sensing that emotions were running high and that they had better get this all settled before someone exploded, stepped in before things could degenerate further, and put forth a set of guidelines to satisfy Spencer and pacify Clara. If any malicious rumours implying less than virtuous behaviour on the part of Lady Tyrell were reported to Spencer—and those rumours must be confirmed by at least five reliable witnesses, and have been repeated on more than one occasion—contact between mother and son would be suspended until her name was cleared or the rumours proved true, at which point her rights to her son would be revoked and Spencer would have full control over Arthur's upbringing.

"I wouldn't worry too much," he added quietly to Clara as he added the condition to the contract. "It isn't as though you'll ever find yourself in such a position, Clara. You're a good girl, and you never get into any trouble."

Clara fought back a wince, both at the memory of some of her recent exploits (which could definitely be considered "trouble") and at the unfriendly smile Spencer was giving her. This stipulation was no guarantee—if anything, it gave much more power to Spencer. What was to stop him from convincing or coercing or paying people to circulate untrue rumours about her? He could stir up a scandal whenever he pleased and steal her hard-won concessions right out from under her, especially given the vague description. "Less than virtuous behaviour"... what was that supposed to mean?

But what else could she do? With More too trusting and Boleyn too watchful and Cromwell too wary to speak to her and Spencer on the lookout for anything which could be used to confirm his low opinion of her and allow him to steal one of her compromises, there was no one to help her, and she could not think of any way out of this.

And judging from the smug expression on Spencer's face, he was very much aware of it, too.

Sir Thomas began to write the final draft of the contract while Lord Rochford sent for a Bible upon which Clara and Spencer would swear. And Spencer himself sidled up to Clara's side, took her arm in a painfully tight grip, and whispered into her ear, "You might've bested me, bitch, but if you don't dance to my tune I'll oust you as a 'joint guardian' so quickly your head will spin. Understand? Don't throw your weight around or I'll have you accused of anything and everything under the sun and have you thrown out... if you're not whipped through the streets as a strumpet first."

Clara just gave him a disgusted glare and yanked her arm out of her grasp, walking away from him to stare out a window not too far from where Cromwell worked diligently at his desk. Though she didn't dare speak to him, she just wanted to be near him, in case Spencer tried anything else... or in case Thomas decided to chance another offer of advice.

But Cromwell remained mute. There would be no more help from that quarter. Perhaps he thought this was the best she could hope for.

Sir Thomas finished writing, and Boleyn brought the Bible over. More had her and Spencer place their hands on the Bible and swear to uphold the contract they were about to sign, and to do so honestly and virtuously (a jab at Boleyn and Spencer, or an indication that he knew what Spencer thought he was up to, with manufacturing a false scandal?). Clara and Spencer swore, and then signed the contract.

More sprinkled sand on the drying ink with a graceful hand. "I will bring this to the Inns of court and have it filed," he offered graciously.

Boleyn's pinkish face remained impassive, but Spencer's flashed with irritation for a moment, and Clara didn't doubt that it would suit both of them if this contract never found its way to the courts, and if they were thus not obliged to abide by its terms. She felt a great swell of warm, tender emotions for Thomas More, and for the help he'd just rendered her. For this, he could call her Mouse until the day she died.

"And that," More finished, blowing the sand off the parchment with a brisk exhalation, "my Lord Rochford, Master Spencer, is that."

Boleyn nodded curtly, and his eyes slid from More to where Clara stood beside him. "It seems we underestimated you, Lady Tyrell," he remarked smoothly, his lips curling upwards into a sharp-edged smile. "But I will not do so again. Indeed, I will observe you with great interest."

Was she imagining the threat in that chilly, silky voice? Judging from the way More had gone still and tense beside her and the gleeful, malicious anticipation on Spencer's face, she was not. Aware that all the colour was slowly leeching from her face, Clara just nodded mutely, jerkily, feeling like a mouse under the eye of a coiled snake. And with a final nod and a thin, edged smile, Boleyn exited the closet, Spencer trotting along in his wake. Clara remained motionless, aware of a cold lump of fear in her gut and the frantic pounding of her heart and the chill creeping up from the tips of her fingers and why was her vision going grey around the edges like that...?

* * *

...She came to lying flat on her back on the wooden floor of the closet, with the faces of Thomas More and Thomas Cromwell hovering over her. Her head felt fuzzy where it was resting on Thomas More's thigh, her limbs felt heavy, her stomach was rolling, her hands were freezing, and there was an ache behind her eyes.

"Thomas?" she asked woozily, blinking the haze away from her vision and trying to focus on him. He looked worried—there was a furrow between his brows and a crease in his forehead, and she supposed he'd been very alarmed if he was using an earnest facial expression.

Then her mind caught up to what her mouth was doing, and she could've kicked herself. She wasn't supposed to know Thomas Cromwell at all, let alone well enough to call him by his Christian name and call to him upon waking from a swoon. A stroke of luck, then, that both the men tending to her were called Thomas.

Indeed, it seemed that Thomas More assumed she was talking to him, since he immediately smiled down at her. "You gave us a bit of a fright, Clara," he remarked gently, helping her sit up. Both he and Cromwell were seated on the floor beside her prone body; if she hadn't been feeling so discombobulated, it would've amused her to think that she'd brought such men down to the ground. But the sudden change in her position made her head spin, putting all other thoughts out of it, and she put a hand to her forehead with a wince as she listed sideways into More's shoulder. He put a supporting arm around her shoulders and went on, "One moment you were upright, and then the next you just... crumpled."

"Oh," said Clara.

"It was rather startling," Cromwell commented mildly, though he met her eyes and let her read the concern in his own. He stood, then, and offered a hand down to the supine Clara. She took it, and he helped pull her to her feet, steadying her as she wobbled upright on weak knees. "Your hands are very cold, my Lady," he added lightly, ensuring she was steady before he released her, letting his hands almost caress her sleeves as he did. A show of support, perhaps? Or comfort?

"I suppose it was a rather overwhelming afternoon," More remarked as he got to his feet and dusted off his coat. When his dark eyes were directed elsewhere, Cromwell caught her eyes and mouthed _all right?_ Clara nodded shortly. Then More's eyes were upon them—upon her—and they once more could not know each other. "I thought you comported yourself rather well, Clara."

"Thank you, Sir Thomas," Clara replied, his approbation lighting a warm glow in her chest that began to chase away the chill of Thomas Boleyn. "I am truly grateful for your assistance. I don't know what I would've done without you." Actually, she could make a good guess. She would've either been completely overridden by Spencer and Boleyn, or she would've gone running to Cromwell and damned the consequences and probably ruined everything for both of them.

Sir Thomas smiled and patted her cheek lightly. "I'll have this filed tonight before I go back to Chelsea," he promised, going to the contract he'd written for her. "Are you hungry? When was the last time you ate?"

Clara thought about it. "Er. Last night?"

More let loose an amused chuff of laughter. "Well, no wonder you fainted. Come dine with me and my family tonight," he offered, brushing the sand off the now-dry contract. "Come by Grey's Inn with me and drop this off, and then come to Chelsea. I know Meg would be happy to see you. You can share the news, and I'll have my barge take you back to the city when we're done."

Though she wasn't looking forward to reliving the events of the day (or to eating the extremely dubious cuisine in Chelsea), Clara was even less eager to go back and confess her defeat to her family. Marion would cry, Agnes would cry, Arthur would cry... the only one who wouldn't cry would be Ben. And it was the idea of her son's tears which stung most; Arthur had believed so wholeheartedly that she would win that it would be as harsh a blow to him as it was to her to learn that she'd lost. And she did owe Sir Thomas for his assistance... "All right. Thank you for the invitation," she acquiesced.

She wished she had the time and the privacy for another conversation with Cromwell—she wanted to thank him for at least trying to help her and ask if he thought she'd gotten the best deal she could or if there was something else she should do, assure him she was truly all right, and ask how worried she ought to be about Spencer's threats and Boleyn's vaguely menacing words—but Sir Thomas folded up the parchment and squired her out of the room before she could even look at her friend. Though he, she knew, was looking at her; she felt the weight of his gaze on her until she left the closet and passed from his sight.

Dusk was beginning to fall and dark clouds roll in as she and Sir Thomas swung by Grey's Inn, where he filed not only her and Spencer's contract but also a few other briefs. Then they boarded a boat to Chelsea and rowed upstream; Clara spoke little, and let More's voice wash over her. Between his dulcet tones and the soft watery sounds, she was lulled to calm, if not peace.

The food at More's house was about as bad as expected, but it hardly mattered. Between the growing lump in Clara's throat and her upset stomach, everything she consumed tasted like ash and sat like rock in her gut anyway. She left most of the day's accounting to be told by Sir Thomas—he was more of an orator than she was, and she was also aware that her composure was rapidly diminishing. So, it seemed, was the rest of the house; everyone was very gentle with her.

After the cheese had been cleared away, Meg reached out and grasped Clara's hand. "Clara, are you all right?" she asked softly.

Clara just met her friend's dark eyes, and silently shook her head.

Sir Thomas also seemed to realise that Clara was exhausted and frayed, for he didn't keep her overlong, and sent her with his good wishes on her way back to London soon after the meal ended. The weather was turning chilly and there was a fine mist falling as his barge rowed her back downstream which turned to rain as they entered the city proper. By the time she made it back to Lord Sedley's house, she was wet and chilled and crying, with hot, fat tears rolling down her cheeks alongside the icy rain.

The household was waiting up for her, and Ben hurried out into the rain to meet her. "Clara, where have you been? Are you all right? What happened?" he asked concernedly. "You're shivering—let's get you inside." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her inside, where waited Agnes and Marion, both of whom had anxious expressions on their pretty faces.

But Marion took one look at Clara's white, miserable countenance and opened her arms. "Oh, sweetheart," she breathed softly, her features sliding from anxious determination to compassionate pity. "Come here."

Clara ran into her arms and burst into tears, letting her sister cradle her in a warm embrace as she sobbed. She was hardly aware when Ben stepped up behind her and wrapped his strong arms around both Marion and herself, but she was grateful for the extra support when she began to weep so vehemently that her knees buckled. Only Ben and Marion held her up as she wailed her anguish into Marion's chest, her body quaking from the force of her misery.

It had been a very hard day, full of very unwelcome life lessons. Clara felt years older now than she had when she awoke, weighted down with the heaviness of destroyed illusions and nascent despair. Sometimes, all the faith in the world wasn't enough to win the day. Sometimes, the good suffered and the wicked prospered.

Sometimes, even your best wasn't enough.

* * *

**A/N part deux:** So, lots of stuff happened in this chapter. We now know what's going to happen to Arthur, we've met a Boleyn, and should Clara ever need to punch someone in the future she won't break her own hand in the attempt.

_Historical notes:_ Apparently, it really was that easy to sneak into a royal palace. At Greenwich and Hampton, apparently, they were often having problems with people sneaking into the palace proper who weren't supposed to be there, and then the guards (when they found them) would have to throw them out. Also, I have no idea how Anne Boleyn got access to the books she did (she was, historically, a very staunch Reformer; not a Lutheran, per se, but a firm evangelical) but I can pretty much state confidently that it wasn't actually Cromwell, since... y'know, historically, Cromwell was still with Wolsey in 1528. And I have no idea what a Tudor-era legal court would've looked like, but it probably wasn't what I just wrote. But hey, at least I'm aware of it.

Also, in case you were curious, _alea iacta est_ means "the die is cast" in Latin; sort of like, it's all out of your hands and all you can do is see what happens.

Happy spring to everyone who's reading! And please, please give me some feedback, here! Pretty please, with some daffodils on top? (Because I like daffodils. And reviews. Possibly I like reviews even more than daffodils.)


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** So originally, I was going to power through the entire Christmas season in chapter 8. By the time chapter 8 reached page 60, I began to reconsider that plan. In the end, I whacked the chapter into two parts (which are still pretty lengthy, both). So, I guess that means y'all get two updates instead of one. You don't mind, do you?

* * *

**Chapter 8:**

_14 December, 1528_

In the days after the judges ruled to give Arthur Tyrell to George Spencer, Clara Tyrell alone shed enough tears to float the _Mary Rose_. Nor was she the only one weeping; Marion cried, and Agnes cried, and her son Henry cried (though perhaps because everyone else was crying than from any real comprehension), and little Arthur Tyrell cried hardest of all. Lord Sedley's house was a very wet place to be in those days immediately following.

Clara's son was not happy to hear that the magic words hadn't been strong enough, that his mother had lost and that he was to be sent away to live with someone else, far from his Mama and Aunt Marion and Uncle Ben. Arthur wailed that he didn't want to go, and that set Clara off into paroxysms of weeping, clinging to her son and crying that she didn't want him to go, and what made Clara cry made Marion cry as well...

Benedict was now spending a solid half of his days at Lord Sedley's house, and while he wasn't weeping (though Marion swore she'd seen him walking around with reddened eyes) he was still very downcast, like everyone else. And it seemed that his preferred method for coping with this disappointment was to spend nearly every night in Agnes' bedchamber. Whenever Lord Sedley was not spending the night with his wife (and at least five of the seven nights he was not), Benedict was there—Clara knew; she could hear them. Mostly because she made sure to keep an ear out, so that she could prevent any surprises, but also because they were not taking as much care as they ought. Did Benedict forget how keen her ears were? Did Agnes think she was blind? Even Marion was starting to realise something was going on between them, and Clara was worried about how long the affair could hope to remain secret. But she wasn't sure what to do about it, yet.

Her only consolation, at this point, was prayer—which was why, though she was still dejected and unhappy and so worried about her brother she'd started to lose sleep, she was still resolved to attend this Sunday's underground sermon with Master Cromwell.

* * *

"You look unwell, Clara—are you feeling all right?" Cromwell inquired quietly as they took seats next to each other in Nicholas Scrope's basement. Master Scrope was hosting the sermon and the preacher this week, and since Clara knew very well where it was located she had opted to meet him there, instead of going all the way out to Austin Friars, and then to Scrope's, and then back to Austin Friars.

"I'm fine," she replied weakly, giving him a wan smile.

Thomas lifted a brow—and here he thought Clara didn't lie. Because it was plain to see that she was not fine. She was extremely pale, with huge dark circles under her eyes, which were bleary and red from (if he was any judge) protracted weeping. Her shoulders were slumped, her smiles were hollow, and that bright spark about her—that spark which drove her to cross-dress and thieve and sneak into Whitehall itself—seemed to be dimmed, if not extinguished altogether. She clearly was not taking her defeat in court very well; not if this was what it had brought her to since he last saw her.

In the days before the trial, that spark of hers was shining right through her skin. Even though she professed to be terrified, she was still alight; Thomas reckoned even some hardened soldiers could take lessons in courage from this meek little gentlewoman. That was why he'd informed his under-clerks at court to keep watch for dark-haired, dark-eyed women in black who wished to see Master Secretary. He'd had a feeling that if things went awry, Clara would be trying to find him at court sooner or later. And sure enough, that Thursday when her case was heard in court, young Master Noke came to him and whispered that there was a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in black who wanted to see him. He gave her name as Igraine Ardley, and Cromwell had needed to stifle a laugh at that bit of cleverness.

She'd been nearly incandescent in that alcove when she'd whispered to him of the opportunities she saw but could not grasp, begging him for assistance, and Thomas had marvelled at her—he still marvelled at her, for that matter, though now her light was nearly out. It would soon reignite itself; of that, he had no doubt. Nothing seemed to keep her downtrodden for long. Even his brief acquaintance had provided enough illustrations for him to conclude that when life knocked her down, Clara inevitably got back up. And Thomas Cromwell would be there waiting once she did.

For he could not but believe that God had sent him Clara Tyrell, endowed with all the gifts of the most perfect agent and wanting only a little instruction. And in instructing her, he would lay claim to her, and bind her to him and his causes—causes to which she was already sympathetic, as her presence here beside him indicated. Clara already had the temperament of a spy; she lurked and listened by nature, and had a clever mind quick to ferret out opportunities from even simple gossip. If it weren't for her utter openness... but then, she'd shown herself capable of at least minor misdirection. With a bit of coaching—provided by himself, of course—that stumbling block would be easily removed. After all, Clara had shown herself willing to listen to him.

He'd have to do something about that reckless streak of hers, though, Thomas mused, running over that afternoon in his mind as they waited for the sermon to begin. She had bravery in spades, of course, but that bravery occasionally made her careless.

Case in point: prancing back into his closet not an hour after she left it with Thomas More on her arm and Thomas Boleyn in tow. Cromwell had nearly had a heart attack. He'd calmed quickly, of course, when it became clear that they only wished to borrow some stationery to compose a contract and that Clara had no intentions of revealing their relationship, but it had still been justly nerve-wracking... especially with Boleyn watching her every move.

That had frightened him—or rather, frightened him on her behalf. Clara had made... well, perhaps not an "enemy" of Boleyn—she was far too insignificant for Thomas Boleyn to deign to notice her as such—but she had definitely placed herself within his sights as a person of interest, to be made unhappy if it were at all possible for setting herself against Boleyn interests. And Cromwell knew Clara was aware of it—she'd heard the subtle threat in Rochford's honeyed tones... and it had apparently terrified her into a dead faint.

Clara had just stood, stock-still, and stared at the back of the retreating viscount for a long moment, growing so pale that even Cromwell, observing her only out of the corner of his eye, could see it. And then she just... folded. Her knees buckled and she collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut, falling to the floor with a thud.

Cromwell had been on his feet before her head hit the ground, moving towards her almost instinctively, as though going to her was a reflex.

He wondered now, as he had wondered then, whether or not he ought to be worrying about that—about the intimacy that was growing up between them, and the pull she was exerting on him. Seeing Clara collapse like that had sent a visceral jolt of fear through his body, one which had him acting just as recklessly as she. For God's sake, they were not even supposed to know each other, and he'd flown to her side like an idiotic knight-errant from one of the stories his nieces read. At least it had only been Thomas More there in the room with them. Suppose it had been Boleyn beside her?

And seeing More with his hands on her, even if the man was just escorting her into a room or displaying his support or catching her as she swooned... whatever the reason, it made Cromwell want to tear Clara away and carry her off to Shoreditch where she'd never see another man again (save perhaps her brother and her son and the trustworthy inhabitants of Austin Friars who would know to keep their hands to themselves). Because when More smiled at her, and spoke kindly to her, and complimented her, and invited her home with him... his attention made Clara sparkle and glow, like Cromwell had thought she'd only done for him. Seeing that was even worse that watching Thomas More touch her body; Cromwell didn't like to see other men touching her soul.

She was still too close to More. Too many ties to Thomas More, and not enough ties to Thomas Cromwell. He would have to fix that, especially if he meant to utilise her as a spy one of these days... and yet, Thomas was beginning to worry that his closeness with Clara was a double-edged sword. He was pulling her in, but for every hook he threw into her, it seemed she threw one of her own into him as well. If it was getting to the point where he was jealous of Thomas More, of all people, where it was her company he wished for during his leisure time and her eyes he saw in his dreams at night...

His attention was diverted as the preacher stepped to the front of the room and called them to prayer, knocking his hand on the printing press to gain their attention. The preacher this evening was a former priest from the east counties, and he spoke compellingly as he prayed for his hearers and, indeed, for all of England to open their hearts and their minds to both his words and God's love, and to accept into their hearts the gifts God bestowed upon them, among which were counted grace, faith, and fellowship.

And that, Thomas supposed, was his answer. Hadn't he just been musing that Clara was a gift from God?

Once the prayer was over, the preacher began his sermon, the subject of which this evening was faith. Though he paid close attention to the words of the address, he also kept an eye on Clara. And that was how he noticed as she began to cry as the preacher spoke about how they must all have faith that everything they currently suffered was part of God's plan, to His ultimate glory. It must have seemed as though God was speaking directly to her, and offering her comfort... although it was apparently rather cold comfort, if her tears were any indication.

He reached out and took her hand. It was chilly, and he held it between both of his, offering her wordless support. Clara wrapped her fingers around his and squeezed, and they both listened to the rest of the sermon in silent communion.

When the meeting was adjourned, he released her hand in favour of her arm as they all began to file out of Nicholas Scrope's cellar. And as such, he immediately felt it when Clara tensed after someone called her former name.

"Mistress Gage? Is that Mistress Clara Gage?"

Both Thomas and Clara turned in unison to see who was hailing her; it was a rather short man with stringy brown hair, unremarkable features, and dull blue-grey eyes which were fixed curiously on Clara. Clara, who had gone stiff under Thomas' hands, and who had an expression of resigned dislike on her face as the man approaching them.

"It is you, isn't it?" the man asked with a smile, his face cast in a faint shadow of nervousness. "I don't know if you remember me, Mistress Gage, but—"

"Simon Wayte," Clara said coldly. Thomas glanced down at her, surprised; he'd never heard her address anyone with such obvious dislike. "How could I forget? And it's Lady Tyrell, now."

"Oh, your pardon, Lady Tyrell. Is this your husband?" Simon Wayte asked brightly, apparently oblivious to Clara's pointed hostility as he turned to Thomas, who had a moment of sudden blankness as his normally-quick mind stuttered to a halt.

Him? Husband? Clara?

His brain restarted as Clara jerked her arm out of his grasp, and he had the sudden urge to plant his fist between Simon Wayte's blue eyes. "No," she replied repressively, crossing her arms across her chest and glaring at the man before them. It wasn't much of a glare, and still put Thomas in mind of an angry kitten, but it was the most unfriendly expression he'd ever seen her turn on anyone who wasn't George Spencer. "This is a friend. My husband is dead."

"My condolences," Wayte returned, sounding earnestly condoling. He released an awkward, chortling laugh and added, "I was surprised to see you here."

"Why?" Clara asked flatly.

"I just didn't think you were willing to be so openly... Lutheran," he said offhandedly, shrugging a little. "Not when you were so quick to recant, before."

"It doesn't count as recanting if I had nothing to recant, as you well know," she snapped back.

Thomas watched the byplay between the two of them, feeling very much on the outside and not enjoying the feeling, either. There was a history between Clara and Wayte—a history of which he was ignorant, and which, if he was any judge, was not entirely pleasant. He'd have to ask Clara about it, when he got her alone.

Wayte held up his hands and stepped back. "I only meant that you seemed to be content with secrecy," he explained consolingly.

Clara was not willing to be consoled—indeed, his words seemed to make her even angrier. "Well, I'm not!" she cried, her ashen cheeks flushing red. "I've never been content with secrecy and I wish to God I didn't have to suffer it now!" And then she turned on her heel and ran up the stairs, vanishing into the bookstore and leaving two very baffled men behind.

After a moment, Wayte turned his eyes onto Cromwell and remarked, "I wonder what's eating her? Surely she can't still be angry with me after all this time?"

"I think, Master Wayte," Thomas replied, annoyed and not trying very hard to hide it, "you chose a very poor time to renew your acquaintance. Next time, allow the lady to approach you, if she has a mind to do so, and you might consider trying some tact." With a final withering stare, he followed Clara's path up the stairs and left Simon Wayte behind.

Once he reached the main floor of the bookstore, Thomas realised he had no idea where Clara had gone. He made a quick circuit of the shop, trying to find her, but with no success. Knowing that if she'd run off into London alone he'd have no luck tracking her down, he left the building and headed out into the street, looking left and right, trying to locate his missing companion. Who was Simon Wayte, and why did he so unsettle Clara?

A darker shadow detached from the side of the Scrope's building and came towards him, and Thomas relaxed. "Clara," he said softly. As she approached, he could see that her eyes were red and her cheeks shining with the remnants of tears—Wayte had made her cry. "Shall I go and hit him for you?" he asked, perfectly willing to go and express his fury at the man for making her unhappy in a physically direct manner via his fist and Wayte's bulbous nose.

Clara gave him a tearful laugh, wiping her cheek with the palm of her hand. "I thank you, Thomas, but no," she replied. "If anyone gets to hit him, it's me."

"Who is he?" Thomas inquired quietly.

She opened her mouth, then closed it and sighed deeply through her nose. "He is... I used to hate him," she murmured. Her face twisted bitterly. "And then I met George Spencer."

Thomas let the subject drop; she seemed unwilling to discuss the matter, and he didn't want to press. Instead, he gestured to the street, silently inviting her home with him, and they strolled out into Shoreditch together. As they walked, he asked quietly, "Are you well, Clara?"

"I am sad," she whispered—and this time, she was truly honest with him. "I thought... I truly thought I was going to win. And then to be treated thus and even threatened like that..." Clara trailed off with a tiny, miserable little sob, and sniffled a little.

Thomas withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it wordlessly to her. He didn't dare embrace her in the middle of the London streets (he didn't even dare embrace her in the privacy of his own home, for that matter), and so the only comfort he could give her was a piece of fine linen with which to dry her tears. It seemed... inadequate, both for the sorrow Clara was obviously suffering and for the depth of his own feelings, which urged him to comfort her in any way possible. Anything to make her stop weeping. Anything to make her shine again.

Nevertheless, she took the proffered cloth with a watery smile and used it to wipe her face. "I fear I am not a very good Christian," she confessed in a small, unhappy voice, looking down to where her slender fingers toyed with the white linen of his handkerchief.

"What could possibly give you that idea?" Thomas wondered in disbelief. Clara, not a good Christian? Compared to others he could name—including himself, for that matter—she was practically a candidate for sainthood.

"The gospels say to forgive those who trespass against us, but I didn't," she confessed dully. "I don't."

"Simon Wayte?" Thomas guessed.

Clara nodded. "I used to hate him," she admitted. "I thought if there was one person in all the world that I hated, it was him—but not anymore. Simon Wayte is just a mild annoyance compared to how I feel about George bloody Spencer. I hate him so much!" she snarled, clenching her fists tightly. Thomas didn't doubt that if Spencer appeared before them now, Clara would put the lessons he'd given her to good use and plant her fist right in that man's gut. "I know I must have faith," Clara went on after a moment, having restrained her rage, though angry tears were now starting to spill down her cheeks, "and believe that this... setback is but part of God's plan and have faith that it is His will that I give my son over to that wastrel... but it's so hard."

She clenched her eyes shut and tried to squash her tiny, miserable sobs, the sound of which made him ache for her as they passed through his back gate (which was the entrance he always used on Sundays, since he didn't want to advertise the fact that he was swanning around London late at night with a woman wholly unrelated to himself). Thomas' fingers itched to wipe away her tears; and once they were firmly inside his own territory, hidden from the sight of anyone not belonging to his own household, he gave into the urge.

Taking her hand and removing his now-slightly-crumpled handkerchief from her grip while pulling her to a stop in the shadow of the house, Thomas used the linen to gently wipe the tears from her face, smoothing his fingers softly over her damp skin, trying to let his touch say everything he could not. Such as, _you are one of the best people I've ever known and don't deserve all this strife_, or _I'll go stick a knife into George Spencer, I'll buy up all his debts and utterly ruin him, I'll get your son back for you, if you'll only stop crying and sparkle for me again,_ or _I would take this pain from you, if I could, because I think you are one of the best friends I've ever had, _or even _you make me want to be better and stronger and more powerful so I can make the world into a place that deserves you_.

Clara's sobs tapered off into nothing, and she looked up at him with a sad little smile. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her nose was running. "I'm sorry for weeping all over like this," she apologised wetly, her voice wry and self-deprecating. "I've been crying for days. We all have been."

"How is Arthur taking it?" he inquired, placing a hand on her back as he directed her into the house, pointedly not noticing that he'd put his hand in the exact same location Thomas More had on Thursday.

Clara emitted a sound that was half-sigh and half-sob as she shed her cloak and handed it to him. He hung it on a peg inside the door, next to his own jacket. "About as badly as I am," she admitted glumly. "Which is probably my fault. I... made this all into a fairy-tale for him. I told him that I was coming to London to learn the magic words to fight the monster that wanted to take him away. It was a harsh blow for him to learn that the monster is to take him anyway... that magic words will not solve every problem. That no matter how much you pray, sometimes God doesn't listen," she added softly, and Thomas knew she was speaking now of herself.

"That doesn't make you a bad Christian," he assured her gently, gesturing her upstairs to his privy closet. "We all have our moments of doubt. It only makes you human, and fallible."

She nodded in acceptance, and wafted up the stairs in silence, the soft rustle of her skirts the only sound of her passage. At the top of the stairs she paused, and turned back to look at him. "Does wanting to strangle George Spencer make me a bad Christian?" she asked glumly, but with a faint hint of dry humour and a faint sliver of a smile. Though it wasn't much of a smile or much of a joke, it was a vast improvement from her earlier tears. Thomas was happy to see that he was slowly pulling her out of her despair. Thomas More couldn't cheer her thusly, he'd wager.

"Perhaps, but I doubt you're the only one with such urges," he returned in kind, letting his lips curl into a wry grin. "We are all sinners together—how fortuitous that we have God's grace to take care of such things."

"Indeed," Clara agreed quietly, but with a measure more peace than previously. Once he ushered her into his privy closet, she immediately gravitated towards his bookshelves, as she always did whenever she was in this room. (Well, at least he knew what to get her for Christmas.)

Thomas sat down behind his desk, and watched her peruse his books. Her breathing began to even out, and she seemed less... brittle. Enough to answer a question about Simon Wayte? He wasn't sure—the last thing he wanted was to make her cry, again. She'd wept enough of late.

"What is it, Thomas?" Clara asked, looking away from the shelves to meet his gaze. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I... wish to ask you something," he replied slowly, in a fit of honesty. "But I do not wish to cause you further distress."

"You want to ask me about Simon Wayte," Clara concluded correctly, turning her eyes back to the books.

"Yes."

Clara was silent for a long moment, before she straightened her shoulders and turned back to face him. "All right," she consented. "But in return, will you tell me something about yourself? Something true?"

His instinctive response was to refuse. As a rule, Thomas did not say much about himself—ever. Nor was this due entirely to natural reticence, though that was certainly part of it. It just seemed safer to be an unknown. Besides, since he and his exploits were shrouded in such mystery, people often invented stories to explain him; Cromwell found the yarns to be both entertaining and informative (not about himself, per se, but about the person creating them). But Clara... she was a different sort. She wanted the truth, and if she couldn't have it would prefer the void.

He had apparently been silent too long. "If you would prefer not to, that's all right," Clara demurred wistfully, coming over to lean a slender hip against his desk. "It's just that you have become one of my best friends, but I know so little about you."

With a sigh, Thomas gave in. "Very well." Her answering smile was swift and bright—there was that spark he'd been missing. Ignoring the skip of his heart, he sat back in his chair. "But first, Simon Wayte? How did you meet him? And why don't you like him?"

Clara grimaced and wrinkled her nose. "I met him when I was younger, when I was a maid in the Duchess of Norfolk's service. I liked to read, and everyone knew it... and I had a habit of asking questions I probably shouldn't have," she began haltingly.

"Surely not," Thomas quipped dryly, in mock-surprise. He could just imagine a younger Clara, wide-eyed and curious, tactlessly demanding answers to questions which would've been better unasked.

That made her grin sheepishly. "I had been reading Erasmus, and asking... er. Questions about church reform, and the clergy, and why was the chaplain tumbling the laundress, and why did Cardinal Wolsey have two children, and why did the Pope wage wars and have children, and how could the bishop of Durham tend to his flock if he was always in Italy, and so forth," she went on. "This wouldn't have been a problem—other than a few slaps for speaking out of turn—except someone found a copy of Luther's Theses in the household. And guess who got blamed for it?" Thomas winced on her behalf, and Clara nodded grimly. "Precisely. Never mind that I protested my innocence; I had a reputation for reading anything I could lay my hands on and for asking questions about Church reforms, so it had to be me," she drawled sardonically. "I got whipped and locked in the cellar overnight. The next morning, they hauled me up before the chaplain, and I honestly thought I was going to die—and die for something I didn't do," she added darkly. "But I recanted—not that I had anything to recant at that point!—and everyone wrote it off as youthful folly."

Thomas could see where her narrative was leading. "It was Simon Wayte's book, wasn't it?"

Clara nodded. "I figured I might as well commit the crime I was punished for, so with a little judicious... listening," by which Thomas assumed she meant eavesdropping, "I eventually discerned the true perpetrator, and... convinced him to direct me to his supplier." She shrugged. "Which was how I met Nicholas Scrope, and became a Lutheran."

"So Simon Wayte brought you into the true faith?" Thomas asked, surprised. Clara nodded. "Then why do you hate him so?"

"Because he let me be punished for something I didn't do!" she burst out angrily, and he was close enough to see the furious tears springing into her dark eyes. Apparently, this was still something of a sore issue. "Because of him, if I get caught again, I'll be burned outright whether I recant or not—no second chances! He let me take the blame for his own secrets, and he never even apologised for it!"

That, Thomas expected, was the crux of the matter, and why Clara found it so hard to forgive. "Not everyone is as brave or as honest as you," he pointed out gently.

Clara just huffed and wiped her eyes, sniffling a little and trying to hide it. "It was still unjust, and he knew it," she grumbled, which certainly seemed to be the end of the issue as far as she was concerned. She scowled darkly at the fire for a moment, before shaking her anger away and turning to look at him. "Well, that's how I stumbled into Lutheranism," she quipped weakly, with a slightly tremulous smile. "What about yourself, Thomas?"

"Nothing so dramatic, I'm afraid," Thomas demurred quietly, crossing his hands over his stomach. So, this was what she wanted the truth of? His conversation to the reformed religion? At least it was mildly innocuous.

But how to vocalise everything which had led him to reject the faith of his forefathers? How to describe the fervency of his faith in his younger years, and the gradual erosion as he grew and observed the discrepancy between what the clergy preached and how the clergy behaved? How to explain the slow chipping away of his faith as he travelled, with everything he saw and experienced breaking another chunk of his convictions away until the whole thing was nearly in pieces? The final blows came when he read Luther's works (both his 95 theses, and the trio of treatises he'd published in 1520), and the truth in the German's words rang in his mind and soul like the pealing of the purest bells. The last remnants of his childish, Catholic convictions were destroyed, and it was as though a dam inside him was released—or rather, smashed to pieces. How to express the rage that flooded him after the breaking of that dam? He'd felt as though the Catholic Church and its clergy had taken advantage of him, had abused his credibility and made a fool of him, and he hated them for it. Even though he found something new to believe in, the memories of his old ignorance remained, and continued to sting, humiliating him with the recollection of his former gullibility. He would never forgive the Catholic establishment for treating him thusly.

But how to explain this all to Clara? She would never understand the dark fierceness of the emotions inside him, or the cold rage that still sat like a canker next to his heart where remained that ruined edifice of devout Catholic faith. Though she professed to hate, she was too sweet and kind and good to truly mean it; Thomas could tell. Her brown eyes were still open and innocent, innocent in a way he hadn't been since childhood... if indeed his eyes had ever been clear like Clara's.

He glanced up at Clara, where she leaned up against his desk and waited patiently for him, her tear-reddened brown eyes fixed evenly and expectantly on his face. She had no doubts in him, Thomas realised. He could tell her anything he wanted—he could spin her a tissue of complete and utter lies—and she would take it as truth because it came from him. That kind of trust was both touching and humbling, and he decided that, at least in this matter at this moment, he wouldn't abuse it.

"I was devout when I was younger," Thomas began quietly. "And yet I noticed the hypocrisy so present in the clergy, and the disparity between those who claimed poverty and those who actually existed within it. Once you see these things, you cannot stop seeing them, and they chipped away at my faith little by little. And when Martin Luther set Germany alight, it seemed as though that blaze illuminated the dark room in which I'd been imprisoned, and showed me the way out. Having seen the light, I could not go back to living in the darkness. And that," he finished, spreading his hands, "was that. Something true for you, Clara, for all that it was not as exciting a tale as your own."

"It was yours, though, and it was true, which is all that matters," she replied earnestly. "Thank you for telling me." She smiled at him, and the heavy cloud of misery which had hovered so heavily over her features all night seemed to clear, at least for a moment.

Thomas smiled back, glad he'd done at least something to lift her spirits. However, he was also feeling slightly vulnerable after the events of the past couple of hours—revealing some small part of himself to Clara, and dredging up past memories he didn't like to visit too often—and felt that perhaps it would be better for both of them to discuss something less... emotionally fraught.

"So what will you do once you relinquish your son to Spencer?" he inquired casually, appearing to change the subject at random, but actually trying to direct her to where he wanted her to go. "Go home to Leicestershire, and sink into obscurity?"

"The idea is tempting," Clara replied ruefully, looking down at her hands as her shoulders sagged once more under unseen burdens. "And I know Marion—my sister-in-law—greatly desires it. But..." she sighed. "I don't know. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed being in London while I was away. And going back to Ardley alone, without Arthur... without Robin..." She shuddered. "I fear the emptiness would swallow me whole."

"Will you take a house in London?" Thomas asked, allowing himself to appear no more than passing curious when truly, he was very, very interested in her answer.

"Perhaps. That was my original plan," Clara replied thoughtfully. "Could you help find me something inexpensive? I've taken a hard hit to my purse with this wardship. I cannot believe I'm paying for someone I hate to raise my own son," she muttered with a bitter grimace.

Her acrimony made him wince inwardly, guessing that Clara's sorrow was beginning to transmute into anger, and hoping she wouldn't wallow too long in bitterness. But even if she did, it was better than wallowing in misery. She was more productive when she was angry than when she was sad. "I can look into it, but my interests are not in houses or land," he replied apologetically.

Clara shrugged. "No matter. I'm sure Agnes will show herself willing to host me. Especially since it will give her an excuse to have Ben over at all hours," she added gloomily.

"Still?" Thomas asked.

"Still," she confirmed darkly.

"Perhaps," he suggested casually, hiding his eagerness, "you might see if your brother cannot find you a position at court?"

That made Clara snort incredulously, which was not exactly the reaction he had been hoping for. "Me? Go to court? Thomas, have you taken leave of your senses?" she demanded. "Can you imagine me, at court?"

He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk, right next to where she leaned, and looked up at her. "Yes, I can," he replied intently.

Clara looked down and frowned a little, patently baffled. "But it's so... loud," she protested weakly. "What would I even do at court?"

"Serve the queen," Thomas supplied dryly. "What else would you do at court?"

"You know what I mean," she returned flatly, pushing herself away from his desk and turning to face him full-on. "Didn't you once tell me that court would eat me alive?"

He'd certainly thought it more than once, though he couldn't quite recall ever vocalising this opinion. "I have no recollection of doing so," Thomas demurred lightly.

"Perhaps it was someone else—probably Sir Thomas," Clara dismissed with a shrug. At the mention of the other Thomas, Cromwell clenched his jaw briefly before consciously relaxing as she went on, "All I know was that I was at court for perhaps three hours, and I hated every single one of them."

"What did you hate about it?" he inquired, preparing to soothe over any objections she might have. He wasn't about to let something as small as Clara not liking court keep him from placing her there, if he could.

"The people. There were so many people, and it felt like they were all looking at me," she admitted with a delicate little shudder, which drew his eyes for an instant down to the neckline of her gown.

"I doubt it," Thomas replied, pulling his eyes back up to her own. "There is a kind of anonymity at court—unless you do something or become somebody, nobody knows or cares who you are. You will get used to the eyes, and the way they see you without seeing you." And given Clara's propensity for sidling away from the centre of things, he didn't doubt that most people at Whitehall would have absolutely no idea who she was. Which was just how he (and apparently she as well) wanted it.

"But it's so loud," Clara repeated, wrinkling her nose.

"Louder than London?" he challenged wryly.

"Well no," she allowed. "But the whispers..." She stared over at the fire for a long moment, before frowning a little and looking up at him. "Why is this important to you, Thomas? If I don't like court, why does it matter to you?"

"I think it's important that you acquire some powerful friends," Thomas replied seriously, making no mention of his more particular hopes for her. "I am aware of the possibility for abuse within the boundaries of the deal you struck with Spencer, and I think it would be best for you to establish yourself in a position of some strength."

Clara's face had immediately turned thoughtful. This, clearly, was the correct lever to use with her, and Thomas waited silently for her to mull the issue over. "He did threaten me," she murmured softly, and in her voice depression was giving way to fury. "He said if I threw my weight around, he would make a scandal and have me thrown out."

Thomas had known for some time now that he didn't think much of George Spencer, but the sudden surge of virulent abhorrence took him by surprise. He made a mental note to make life as difficult for Master Spencer as he possibly could; no one would threaten someone under his protection without repercussions. No hint of his vehemence was apparent in his voice, however, as he noted, "A position at court would help forestall that kind of thing—especially if you are able to make some powerful friends. Even if you are but one of Queen Katherine's lowliest ladies, Spencer will have an extremely difficult time making a scandal out of nothing when he knows that to attack you is to obliquely attack Her Majesty as well."

"And I would be able to do more for Arthur at court than I would in the country," Clara agreed in a low murmur. "Perhaps when he's older I could even get him a place as a page..."

He stifled a victorious smile. He'd got her—he had drawn her out of the pit of despair in which she'd been languishing earlier this evening, stoking her inner fire as he planted a seed in the fertile ground of her mind. Now she'd warmed to the idea of being at court, and would soon enough override even her own objections in order to protect her rights to and work for her son. One obstacle overcome; now, he had to somehow bring her around to the idea of becoming his spy in the Queen's household.

Thomas knew he could manage to find her a place; between his ties to Wolsey, Clara's own ties to Wolsey through her brother, and Wolsey's desperation to secure the King an annulment at any cost (therefore leading him to pepper the Queen's rooms with his spies), if he presented the idea correctly the Cardinal would certainly find a place in the Queen's household for a lady sympathetic to his cause. Thomas even considered the idea of trying to gain some Boleyn support as well, revealing Clara's talents and presenting her as one who had only stood against them for love of her child. That course of action would also remove her from Thomas Boleyn's sights, which was another benefit.

Truthfully, Thomas suspected he'd have a more difficult time convincing Clara to spy than he would finding a place for her at court.

A sudden cloud blew back across Clara's face, and he tensed slightly. "What is it?" he wondered, preparing himself to pacify another round of objections.

"Ben," she admitted quietly, her inner light once more going dim. "While he and Agnes... I have to get them to stop. If the scandal from their inevitable discovery doesn't lose me Arthur outright, it will certainly destroy any chances I have for a place at court."

"Yes," Thomas agreed. It was true, after all, and it was good to see that she was now ready to fight for the future she wanted, instead of sitting back and letting the world pass her by. Even better that the future she was fighting for was one he wanted as well. "What will you do?"

"Talk to him, I suppose," Clara said, looking thoroughly unhappy with the prospect. Thomas tried to imagine that conversation, and grimaced faintly. "Precisely," she agreed, seeing his expression. Her shoulders slumped again, but this time her neck remained upright. She was unhappy, but she was going to fight. "But what else can I do? He's my older brother."

"Then I wish you good luck," Thomas offered.

Clara cringed, and turned to stare at his books, though he could tell she wasn't truly reading anything. "I'm going to need it."

He stood, and moved to stand behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, as though he could take the burdens from them through his mere touch, letting his thumbs smooth absently over her linen-covered shoulder-blades. "I have every faith in you, Clara," Thomas reminded her. And not unjustly. Clara was an unpolished gem, who only wanted a little refining to make her into the perfect agent.

But even beyond her usefulness to him, she was also his friend. He enjoyed her company; she was clever and well-read, and had an understated wit which, combined with her omnipresent honesty, made him laugh. Even after knowing her for a month, she still kept surprising him, showing a new facet of herself every time they were together, keeping him fascinated. And she trusted him. Perhaps he was a little concerned over how important to him she was becoming—he was definitely concerned about the great swells of emotion she'd earlier inspired within his breast, to the point where he had been earnestly willing to murder George Spencer for her, and a little less concerned but still a little worried about the slow-burning lust which thus far had only shown itself in his increasing desire to touch her—but Thomas also believed that the real benefits of her presence in his life far outweighed the hypothetical harm.

* * *

_17 December, 1528_

It took Clara a few days to drum up her courage, and in the end only the knowledge that her father was due to arrive in London within two or so mere days drove her to confront her brother about his behaviour.

She tarried by the gate the whole afternoon, reading a book in the weak sunlight and waiting for her brother to come. Marion and Agnes kept trying to bring her back inside, citing the cold and the wind, but Clara knew she had to catch Ben before he entered the house. She'd never get him alone then, and her courage would probably fail her.

By the time she caught sight of Ben's horse, she was shivering, even under her furs. Her brother's expression was incredulous as she waved him to a stop outside the gate. "What are you doing out here, Clare?" Ben demanded, dismounting. "You'll catch your death of cold!"

"I need to talk to you, privately," Clara replied sternly.

"And you couldn't talk to me privately inside?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow upwards.

"I don't think you'll want to have this conversation where Agnes could even possibly overhear it," she returned, giving her brother a glare.

The invocation of Agnes' name brought Benedict up short. He paused, and looked down at his sister for a long moment. Clara kept her face set and determined, letting him silently know that she was not going to back down from this. Then he swallowed thickly and nodded. "I'll just... my horse," he said, gesturing to his mount. Clara nodded, and Ben hurried into the courtyard, tossed his reins to a servant, and then rushed back out to where his sister waited outside the gate.

"Let us walk," Clara suggested firmly, gesturing to the bustling street. There would be less of a chance of them being overheard among all the other noise. Ben nodded, and they began to meander along the road.

After they had gone a ways from Agnes' house, Ben spoke. "You know, don't you?"

"Yes," Clara replied grimly. "My ears are better than yours, Ben, and you have not been particularly discreet. Honestly, are you trying to be caught?"

Benedict sighed, and raked a hand through his hair. "I can't help it."

"You can't help acting like a reckless fool?" Clara repeated incredulously. "Ben, this is dangerous—for you, and for her. And for me," she added sharply.

"For you?" Ben repeated blankly.

"Yes, for me!" Clara hissed, suddenly angry. "I told you about the conditions of my deal with Spencer. Any scandal and I'm ousted, and that wretched man gets total control of my son's upbringing. And you... you're brewing up a scandal right under my feet! When it gets revealed—and with the way you've been carrying on, that won't be long—I'll lose my son! And my lodgings—Lord Sedley will certainly throw me out into the street, to say nothing of what he'll do to Agnes! God's blood, Ben, how can you act so stupid!"

"I didn't start this to spite you, Clara," Benedict retorted with a weak glare. "It has nothing to do with you—when and if there's any scandal, it won't touch you, because you've had nothing to do with any of it."

"Do you think that makes any difference to George bloody Spencer?" she hissed. "Or to Father—have you forgotten that he's to arrive in two days?" Judging by Ben's sudden pallor, he had forgotten. "Ben, you have to end it. For her sake, and yours—for your immortal souls, for the love of Christ—you have to end it."

"Clara, I can't," he replied simply.

Clara's eyes widened. "Benedict!"

"I can't," he insisted strongly. "I love her."

"Oh, hell," she muttered, closing her eyes in frustration. She could hear the certainty in his voice—he was not going to bend, because he did truly love her bubbly best friend. "You couldn't have chosen better time? Such as, before she was married?" she asked despairingly. "And she is married. She has a son of her own, and a husband. We may not like this husband, but that's what he is," she reminded her brother persistently. "What kind of future can you possibly hope to have with her? Where do you see this going?"

"I don't know, Clara," her brother replied angrily, raking his hands through his brown hair. "I don't know, all right? All I know is that I love her. I love her, and... well, that's it. I love her, and I'll do anything to be with her. And I will not give her up for you, or anyone!"

They had stopped walking and stood facing one another. Ben was breathing heavily, and Clara had clenched her fists. The unstoppable force had met the immovable object.

But then, the object moved. Clara sighed, and looked away. "Then be careful," she warned harshly. "Either suspend your affair over Christmas or be much, much more discreet. If you don't, you'll not only ruin me—and possibly yourself—but Agnes too. Unless you think Father has taken up discretion at this stage of his life," she added wryly, trying to inject some humour into the situation to dispel the tension. She didn't like fighting with her brother.

That made her brother snort. "Not likely. But I understand your warning. I'll be more careful," he promised.

Clara nodded, and they turned their steps back to the house. "I don't like what you're doing, Ben. It's a sin. But you're my brother, and she's my best friend. I will do what I can to keep secret your... intaglio," she promised quietly. "I don't want it revealed any more than you do."

Ben took her hand and squeezed it lightly in his, accepting her olive branch for what it was. "Thank you, Clara. I'll talk to Agnes, and we'll do our best to be more discreet," he promised in return.

"I'll pray for you," Clara added softly as they passed through the gates to Agnes' house.

The rest of the evening was a little awkward for her. Ben was, true to his word, acting a little more circumspectly around Agnes, who had apparently drawn the correct conclusion about his cooler behaviour and who kept casting nervous glances at Clara. Marion, meanwhile, was still a little resentful about being sidelined, and seemed to sense that she was once again being left in the dark. "What's going on, Clara?" she demanded, once she'd caught Clara alone.

"Nothing I can share with you," she replied apologetically.

"Is this a city of secrets?" Marion cried angrily. "Why can you not confide in me here, as you did at home?"

"Because the confidences I keep are not my own," Clara explained gently. "I'm sorry if that upsets you, Marion, but the stakes here are higher, and you are not particularly discreet. Actually," she realised, recalling the behaviour of her brother and her best friend and even her late sister, "none of us really are." What did it say about her, that she surrounded herself with indiscreet people? Except for Cromwell, of course.

"Then I shall be glad when we return to the country and have less need for it," Marion grumbled. "When will we depart?"

Clara flushed and looked down. "Not until after Christmas, at least... when I must bring Arthur to Berkshire," she whispered, trying not to admit outright that, as far as she was concerned, they weren't going back to Leicestershire for a long time. If Cromwell could get her a place at court—or even if he could not—she was staying here.

But she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.

Agnes also caught Clara and pulled her aside for a private talk, dragging her into her withdrawing room before supper was set out. "You know, don't you?" she began without preamble.

"Ben said the exact same thing to me, earlier," Clara commented mildly.

All the colour washed out of Agnes' pretty face. "You do know," she whispered.

"You haven't been particularly quiet, or discreet," Clara pointed out gently. "Agnes, I won't judge you or tell anyone or... but will you not end this folly?" she entreated softly. "It's so dangerous, for yourself and for me and even for Ben if your husband takes it into his mind to destroy his prospects."

"We'll just be more careful," Agnes said firmly, and Clara knew then that neither she nor Ben were willing to end their affair. Her dismay must have shown on her face, because Agnes reached out and grabbed her arms tightly. "Listen to me, Clara. You don't understand—your father, whatever else he ever did to you, chose you a good, decent husband. My father was not so kind. You don't understand what it is to share bed and board with a man you cannot love or respect or even like. You don't know what it is to be forced to spread your legs for someone who repulses you. My life was a misery before Benedict, and I will not give him up for you, or anyone!"

Clara just sighed, and nodded. "All right. But please, be careful," she pleaded. "I don't want you getting sent to a nunnery."

"God forbid," Agnes laughed with a toss of her golden head. She pressed a kiss to Clara's forehead, added, "You're so sweet, Clara," and flounced back into the great hall.

Clara was left with a sense of growing foreboding, and the knowledge that there was nothing else she could do to prevent the imminent disaster.

* * *

_17 December, 1528_

Gregory Cromwell had not yet been home for one entire day, and already his cousin Richard had him in a headlock.

"Gerroff!" Gregory shouted, his protest muffled by Richard's arm.

"What's that, Greggo?" Richard demanded loudly, rubbing his knuckles along the top of Gregory's dark head and mussing his hair. Of course, he dropped his hand and released his captive the instant Gregory's sharp elbow came into contact with his gut. Gregory ducked out of Richard's hold as his older, larger relation staggered back, winded and grinning. "Where'd you learn that?" his cousin demanded good-naturedly.

"It's not all books and papers at Cambridge, you know," Gregory replied haughtily, trying to rearrange his mussed hair and reclaim his dignity. He didn't know when, exactly, his father was due home—it could be five minutes from now or five hours—but Gregory didn't want to greet him looking like a scruffy no-account.

Richard roared with laughter, and slung a wiry arm across Gregory's shoulders, jostling the smaller boy as he teased, "Well, at the very least, Cambridge got you to feel your oats. Not such a mouse after all, eh?"

Gregory rolled his eyes and neglected to mention that he hated it when Richard called him a mouse. Protesting would just make him continue. So he kept his mouth shut and let his cousin tow him into the hall where his female cousins were bent together over some confection of brown velvet and hanks of wool.

Alice looked up at their approached and smiled at him. "Hello, cousin Gregory," she greeted cheerfully, prompting Joan to glance up and greet them as well.

Richard shoved Gregory onto the bench before taking a seat himself. Gregory scowled a little, and wished Richard would stop tossing him around as if he were a wooden puppet, before turning to the girls and inquiring curiously, "What are you doing?"

"We're making a hawk," Joan replied absently, frowning down at the mass of cloth on the table.

"That's a hawk?" Richard asked inquisitively, leaning over the table to get a better look at it. "It looks a bit like a lopsided rabbit."

Alice and Joan both glared at him, and Gregory quickly interjected helpfully, "It's not so bad... maybe if you tuck up the back a little and move the wings down?" Alice brightened at the idea, and bent her head back to her work as Joan tucked up the fabric in the back as suggested. "Why are you making a hawk, anyway?" he wondered.

"We're trying to make a toy for Arthur," Joan explained, which at the same time explained absolutely nothing.

Gregory was still confused. Who was Arthur, and why were they making him a toy? "What?" he asked.

"He wants a hawk," Alice replied, focussed on the stitches she was placing into the toy hawk and therefore ignorant of her cousin's bewilderment. "But what with everything, we don't think he can actually have one—not a real one. Not since he has to go live with that horrible Spencer man, now."

"Poor Lady Clara," Joan sighed.

"Poor Arthur, more like," Richard interjected grimly. "I've heard a bit about what Spencer's like. I wouldn't trust the man with my dog, let alone my child. If I had one, anyway."

Now Gregory was feeling confused and left-out. Everyone except him knew who these people were and the whys and wherefores of their presence here, in his home. His father wrote to him, sometimes, telling him about the family—never anything about himself or much about what he was doing, but about how his sisters (when they'd been alive) and now his cousins fared—but Father hadn't ever mentioned a Clara or an Arthur. But he had confided in Richard. Feeling small and inferior, he asked weakly, "Who's Arthur?"

"Lady Clara's son," Joan piped in.

"She is teaching us to run a household, and when she comes for lessons she brings her son," Alice added.

Gregory raised his eyebrows in surprise. Teaching Alice and Joan to run a household would by necessity require a certain familiarity with the Cromwell household and its running, and he wondered about the person his father trusted enough to do that. "Lady Clara?"

"Your future stepmother!" Richard told him broadly, slapping his back heartily and making his smaller cousin lurch forward.

Gregory's mouth fell open. "What?"

Alice and Joan giggled, and then Joan piped in, "We think Uncle Thomas is going to marry her."

Once, when he was younger and learning to ride, Gregory had been thrown off his horse. He remembered hitting the ground hard and feeling all the air whoosh right out of his lungs, his chest tight and unable to take in another breath, stars dancing in front of his eyes as he wondered what had just happened. He felt a little like that right now.

"What?" It seemed to be all he could say.

Alice and Richard shared an uneasy look. "Uncle Thomas didn't tell you?" Alice asked tentatively.

Gregory shook his head, feeling wretched and perhaps a little bitter. "He never mentioned her in his letters at all." But then, why would his father bother to write to his only son about the woman he'd chosen to replace Gregory's mother?

He'd always felt like he was the least of Thomas Cromwell's children... felt like he was pointedly excluded from his father's confidence and affections and life. And this revelation made him feel it more keenly still. Was he such a disappointment as a son that he did not even deserve to know that he was going to have a stepmother?

"He probably has nothing to tell. After all, it's not as though anything is official," Richard noted, keeping his eyes on Gregory. Gregory wondered if his inner turmoil was visible to everyone, but couldn't make the effort to hide it, either. "They haven't said anything to anyone—this is all just our own speculation."

Part of him was aware that Richard was trying to make him feel better, but most of him was still hurt and in no mood to be coddled—especially from Richard, who seemed to be the son his father wanted instead of him. Richard was always included, while Gregory was sidelined. Richard was the one summoned to accompany Father when he wanted backup at court or in the city. Richard was the one who got to go to Grey's Inn and Whitehall and Westminster. Richard was the one who knew about what Gregory's father was actually doing, while Gregory himself got fobbed off with distant letters and half-truths.

_...All right, that was unfair_, he allowed inwardly. But he was too bitter at the moment to care.

Besides, Alice opened her mouth and put paid to whatever it was Richard said almost immediately after. "It's so obvious, though!" she insisted. "They're always going upstairs alone together—"

"To discuss business," Richard interrupted pointedly, in a tone meant to forestall further discussion, looking as though he heartily regretted bringing up the subject at all. "Of which, I might add, this matter is none of ours."

Alice tossed her dark curls haughtily. "Oh come, Richard," she said. "It's plainly obvious to see the way she smiles at him. And I saw them outside together, last Sunday," she added, dropping her voice to a near whisper. "They stood so close together as to be nearly touching!"

"Alice," Richard warned. "They could've been discussing something sensitive. There is a reason we've all been asked to say nothing of her presence here."

"Really?" Gregory asked, startled out of his bitter gloom.

"Really," Richard confirmed. "We're not to mention her name or her presence here outside the house, or even admit that we know her at all."

"Must we still, since her case is over?" Joan wondered.

"Until Uncle Thomas says we might, we must keep our silence," Richard replied sternly.

"Why must you?" Gregory wondered.

His spirits were improved by Richard's reply: "I have no idea. But Uncle Thomas requested it, so it must be so." Well, at least Gregory wasn't the only one excluded from that particular secret. "I think it might have something to do with the connections Master Spencer has, though," Richard added leadingly. That made Alice, Joan, and Gregory look at him curiously. "I think he's got ties to the Boleyns," he murmured.

"Perhaps we can ask Lady Clara tonight," Joan suggested. "She will tell us, if we ask. Oh, and you can meet her!" she added brightly, turning to Gregory. "You'll like her, Gregory. She's very sweet."

"She really is," Alice agreed. "Very kind and patient with us. And her little boy is a dear."

So he would get to meet his future mother before the marriage. That was a kindness, Gregory supposed sourly.

Well, he wouldn't be impressed by her. No matter how sweet she was or wasn't, she was still the woman who would be replacing his mother, and he was resolved not to like her.

* * *

Gregory stayed downstairs for the rest of the day, trying to read but too distracted to really concentrate.

He was home, but he wasn't, either... the house didn't feel so much like home anymore. Mama was gone, for one, and with her passing a year and a half ago a large amount of the household's warmth had left with her. He missed seeing her bustle around in her cap and her apron, dispensing gentle touches and brisk commands as she passed... but always slowing with a special smile and a soft word for him. It felt like half a home without her, as though one of the household's limbs had been cut off.

Wounds healed, though, and people got used to anything. The family settled... only to lose another limb. Or two.

Gregory missed his sisters. Without them, Austin Friars felt even less like home. It felt... empty without the sound of Anne's clomping footsteps, or without the sight of Grace's fair hair as she trailed on after their mother, whom she much resembled. Without Anne's sharpness and strong voice, without Grace's soft gentleness and her delicate laugh... it was like a pond without water; something crucial was missing. Alice and Joan were not replacements for the loss of his sisters; they just punctuated the absence. He missed Anne's wit and the way she'd support him, no matter what, against their cousins or anyone else, and he especially missed the way Grace listened to him. Whatever he had to say, however trifling, she would listen.

They were both gone, now. They died this past summer in the Sweat, a half a year ago. All that was left was him, and Father, and Gregory felt as though the deaths of the women in their family had somehow made a distance between them. Or no... rather, Gregory had always felt unsure and uncertain around his father and in his father's shadow—his father, who had been everywhere and done everything and brought the Cromwell family up into something rich and respectable through the use of his wits alone—and the presence of his mother and sisters had abrogated his sense of... inadequacy, and lessened the awkwardness it inspired. Now without them, it all came roaring back.

As it stood now, Gregory had no idea how to talk to his father. Thomas Cromwell had always been rather self-contained and remote; his son was intimidated by his iron composure, and didn't know how to break through. Or even if he could break through; sometimes it seemed his father had no interest in talking to him.

A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Gregory turned to see what it was. Then he gasped and startled to his feet.

It was a woman—a woman in black, with a bag slung over her shoulder and a little boy clinging to her skirts. He hadn't heard her approach, which was why she'd startled him so. But he knew who this had to be.

She had pale skin, made paler by her attire, which was made of a fine black wool, trimmed with silk and velvet. Atop her dark head sat a hood of black silk trimmed with jet beads. She had a plain-ish sort of face, with wide, pretty dark eyes that were fixed on him. "I beg your pardon," she apologised, and her voice was soft and sweet. "I had not thought anyone was in here. You," she added with a gentle smile, "must be Master Gregory Cromwell."

"And you are surely Lady Clara," Gregory replied awkwardly, bowing. Her dress was too fine for her to be anyone else.

"That is what Alice and Joan call me," the lady confirmed. "Lady Clara Tyrell of Ardley, Leicestershire. And this," she went on, smiling down at the boy hiding behind her skirts and peering out at him with the same dark eyes, "is my son, Arthur." Lady Clara's slender hand reached down to brush across the top of her son's hair—the same soft chestnut as her own—in an absently affectionate gesture that made Gregory ache inside. His mother had touched him thusly once upon a time, and he missed her painfully. "Will you not say hello to Master Gregory, Arthur?" she murmured softly to her son.

It was plain to see that Arthur was Clara's son, and no one else's. The pale little face that peered out from behind her skirts was very much like her own—same eyes, same chin, and probably the same nose sometime in the future. He looked shyly out at Gregory, sketched a little bow without releasing his mother's dress, and mumbled, "H'lo, Master Gregory."

Clara stroked her son's hair again as he buried his face back in the black wool of her skirts and smiled fondly down on him. But she was sad, too, as she looked at her child—deeply, achingly sad. And for a moment Gregory forgot that he was resolved to dislike her.

She settled her satchel on the other end of the table at which he sat, and began to remove things from it—a slim ledger, a leather folio, a stack of parchment and an inkwell—arranging them neatly on one side of the table. A servant entered the hall with another sheaf of parchment, a handful of quills, and the heavy ledger Gregory recognised as belonging to the household accounts, and set it on the other side of the table, before bending his head to inform Lady Clara quietly that Alice and Joan would be down presently. Clara smiled and thanked the man graciously, as though she were the mistress of the house.

The sight of her doing so reignited Gregory's anger—she apparently felt more comfortable in his home than he did! His anger must have been visible on his face, for when Lady Clara turned back to him her expression turned confused, and her voice was a bit more tentative as she inquired, "Are you happy to be home?"

"I suppose," Gregory replied, scowling.

"You don't look it," Clara noted, tilting her head sideways to regard him with kindness in her eyes.

"I miss my mother," he returned pointedly, sullenly. "It doesn't seem as much like home without her. She was prettier than you," he added, knowing it was rude and unable to care. Truthfully, he wanted to shout at her, crying that it was her fault he wasn't happy to be home, that she was replacing his mother without being half the woman she was and making his own home feel like a strange, unfamiliar place... but he managed to hold most of his churlishness back. Father might not punish him for being snippy, but he'd certainly punish him for shouting at a lady.

Said lady was plainly taken aback by his words, and Gregory was pleased to see she looked a little hurt. "Well, most women are," she commented quietly.

After that, taking the hint that he didn't wish to speak, she fell silent, settling down on one of the benches and leaving him to his own devices. Gregory watched out of the corner of his eye as young Arthur, unable to keep hold of her skirts, crawled up onto the bench... and then into his mother's lap. Clara wrapped her arms around him and helped him settle, rubbing his back soothingly, and Arthur nestled up against his mother and stuck his thumb in his mouth.

"Arthur," Clara chided gently, tugging the appendage out of her son's mouth. "What shall you do with Richard this evening?" Arthur mumbled something into his mother's chest which Gregory couldn't hear. "Are you certain?" Arthur nodded against her chest. "All right, but you will have to sit on the bench when we begin the lesson, and you mustn't interrupt."

Gregory wondered if the boy was always so clingy.

Alice and Joan arrived a few minutes later, greeting Lady Clara warmly and cooing over Arthur, who drew far enough away from his mother to submit to the girls' petting for a time, before, at his mother's prompting, sliding off her lap and huddling up beside her and sticking his thumb back in his mouth. Once Arthur fell silent, Clara stepped in, speaking softly but firmly and directing Alice and Joan to the table and beginning the lesson, which started with some mathematical exercises.

As he watched the tutorial progress, Gregory began to wish that some of his tutors had taken lessons from Lady Clara—or that he had. She paid attention to her two pupils, and was quick to lend a quiet hand whenever one of them struggled. Whenever Joan or (more often) Alice had a problem or a question, she was patient with them, carefully explaining whatever snarl had caught them up—more than once, and in more than one way, if necessary. She never became sharp or scolding no matter how often Alice bungled a transfer of funds or a conversion from pounds to florin, or how many times Joan's sums didn't add up. There were no harsh words or raps on the knuckles upon a wrong answer or a wandering attention span. Clara was a calm, earnest teacher, and Gregory had learned more than one thing about household management by the time his father arrived home and interrupted the exercises.

Arthur had migrated down to the floor by then, playing with a wooden horse while practically sitting on his mother's skirts. Lady Clara paused the lesson with a mild, "Your uncle is home. Go and greet him, and then we will finish."

Alice and Joan didn't need any further telling, and immediately scurried for the vestibule of the house. Gregory stood and followed them out as Lady Clara tried to get her son off the floor. There, he found everyone already gathered—the girls, Richard, Ralph Sadler and there, in the middle, his father. Father didn't look any different than he usually did; same sober clothing, same close-cropped black curls, same face in which Gregory, when he searched his own, could find few echoes. To his reckoning, he only shared his father's grey-blue eyes, the darkness of his hair, and the general shape of his face; everything else came from his mother. No one, looking at Thomas and Gregory Cromwell together, would instantly surmise they were father and son—not like Lady Clara and Arthur Tyrell.

Feeling awkward and somewhat excluded, Gregory tarried in the entrance to the hall, hovering there on the edges of the family throng as Alice and Joan hurried back to their lesson, followed by Richard. Ralph took his father's papers and went upstairs, and Father himself approached with a smile on his face.

"Gregory, how good to see you home," Father said, clapping his hands onto Gregory's shoulders. Up close, Father was still the very same man he'd always been; perhaps there were some new lines cut into his face, but other than that he was the same fixture as always. "I trust your journey was uneventful."

"Yes, Father," Gregory replied. He fumbled for something more to say—something witty, or educated, or profound, something to prove that he wasn't wasting time or money at Cambridge, that though he wasn't as strong and physically able as Richard or as keen mentally as Ralph, he was still a worthwhile part of the household and the family. But, as always, being alone with his father tied his tongue up in knots, and he could think of nothing further to say.

"Well, we are glad to have you back," Father said after a moment. "Now we are all together for Christmas."

"I'm sure the season will be pleasant," Gregory returned by rote, thinking inwardly that it would hardly be much of a holiday at all without Mama and Anne and Grace. "I... will Lady Clara and her son celebrate with us?"

That brought a hint of surprise to his father's face, and he looked into the hall where they both could see the woman and her child at the table. Gregory, however, kept his eyes fixed on his father's countenance, searching for any hint of his feelings for the woman he was apparently going to marry. He wasn't sure what he was looking for—perhaps an echo of the softness with which Father had looked at Mama? Or mere diffidence? Was Father marrying the lady because he loved her, or because he thought the house needed a mistress?

Either way, Gregory could find little confirmation on his father's face or voice as he replied evenly, "I am unsure. No concrete plans have been made. I don't doubt we'll be seeing some of her, but how much I cannot say with any accuracy."

"Why didn't you tell me about her?" Gregory finally burst out. "Everyone knew about her before I did, and she's going to be my stepmother!"

If he hadn't been so upset, Gregory would've been very pleased to note that he had thoroughly unsettled his father, who had a startled, wide-eyed look on his face that very few people had cause to see in recent years. "What?" Father asked blankly.

He was echoed by a cry from in the hall. "What?"

Gregory turned to see Lady Clara had stood from the table and was staring at them with an expression of incredulous horror. How had she heard him from all the way over there? And now everyone else was looking at him too—Alice and Joan confusedly, Richard amusedly, Arthur curiously. Having come too far to go back now, Gregory swallowed around the lump in his throat and soldiered on. "Well, they all say you're going to marry her—"

"Who says that?" Lady Clara demanded, coming towards him with her fear writ clearly on her face.

"Er," Gregory said, shuffling his feet and trying not to fidget too obviously. He didn't want to point the finger at his cousins and be branded a tell-tale; they'd all be angry with him and never tell him anything ever again, and he wasn't willing to destroy that source of information, since apparently household gossip was the only way he learned anything of his own father's life anymore. But he couldn't help the way his eyes flickered to Alice and Joan, both of whom were now looking extremely embarrassed.

Naturally, his father noticed his gaze move, and his own eyes followed Gregory's to the two blushing girls at the table. "Girls?" he inquired mildly, but with a telling edge in his voice as he drew both Gregory and Lady Clara out of the doorway and into the hall. Gregory noticed that there was no sign of the closeness between Father and Lady Clara as Alice and Joan had claimed; they kept at least an arm's span of distance between them. "Is there perhaps something you wish to explain about Gregory's incorrect assumptions?"

Alice and Joan shared a look, and then Alice, as the elder, began to speak. "Well... er. We all... ah, though that you and Lady Clara... because you always spend so much time together," she explained haltingly, her cheeks pink. "Most... um, petitioners don't... well. And Lady Clara is pretty, neither of you are married anymore and Arthur is here... so we assumed that..." she trailed off into silence when Father just looked at her impassively. Lady Clara, on the other hand, was visibly irate, with a flushed face and furrowed brows.

"Are you angry?" Joan asked timidly.

"Yes!" Lady Clara cried.

"Clara," Father chided gently.

"No!" Lady Clara retracted immediately. She shook her head, seeming to realise she'd just contradicted herself. "Maybe! No, yes, I'm... well, I'm not angry, but I'm certainly upset!" she insisted, sending a swift scowl at his father, who just raised his eyebrows, as if surprised she would think he would imply otherwise.

And there was the reason, Gregory suspected, his cousins thought Father was going to marry Lady Clara. Perhaps it wasn't so much physical closeness between them, but they seemed as though they understood each other implicitly, and had a silent language that only they understood. Even now, Father stood silently and supportively at Lady Clara's back as she stepped forth to deal with the issue, as though she were an actual part of the family instead of just a friend or a guest of the house.

"Have you told anyone outside the household?" Lady Clara demanded. "Does anyone other than..." she gestured around the hall, "know what you've been saying?"

Alice shook her head. "No, we promise," she replied earnestly. "We only told Gregory because... well, he's Gregory."

"Technically, I was the one who started it," Richard admitted sheepishly, stepping forward. "We were teasing him, and I... said Lady Clara was going to be Gregory's future stepmother, and..." he trailed off and shrugged, looking a little embarrassed.

Lady Clara sighed, and put a hand to her forehead as she clenched her eyes shut. "Richard, Anne, Joan... all of you, you cannot say such things," she began quietly, tiredly. "Not only is it untrue, it's also dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Richard repeated, baffled.

Clara and Father shared a look, and then seemed to come to an agreement. Clara sat back down at the table, Father took a seat at the head, and beckoned everyone close. Gregory took a seat on the bench next to Joan, who looked near-tears, and patted her skinny shoulder supportively. Alice, next to Joan, looked nervous and ashamed; Richard was stoic and curious; and Arthur had clambered up into his mother's lap again. Everyone was paying very close attention as Father began to speak.

"While Arthur's wardship was indeed granted to George Spencer, through her own initiative and some surreptitious assistance of my own, Lady Tyrell was granted the stewardship of the Tyrell lands until Arthur comes of age," Father explained. "She was also fortunate enough to strike a deal with Master Spencer in which she has joint guardianship and control over her son."

"But," Lady Clara inserted, picking up the thread Father had been spinning for her, "there is a caveat in that deal. If any hint of scandal touches my name, all my rights are revoked and Spencer gets total control over my son. It doesn't even have to be a real scandal, either—even the merest whisper can and will be used by that man to take Arthur away from me."

The young boy in question whimpered a little, and snuggled in closer to his mother. Clara cradled him protectively, rubbing his back slowly as she went on, "Do you now understand why you mustn't say such things? If your words reach the wrong ears, everything I fought for will be lost. Even besides the fact that the very supposition is ridiculous. I... I haven't even been a widow for a year, yet, and... well, Master Cromwell is a dear friend, but I couldn't possibly... my family has been gentry in Norfolk for at least two hundred years, and the Tyrells are better established still, so the mere idea that I should marry... well, it is entirely ludicrous..." the woman floundered uncomfortably. Her entire face was flushed, and she was pointedly not looking at Father or anyone else, keeping her eyes downcast onto the boy in her lap.

Father must have noticed, since he was the one to speak and end Lady Clara's awkward, stumbling speech. "Lady Tyrell and I are friends," he reiterated, "and nothing more. And I'll hear nothing said to the contrary." This, with a stern look at the girls and at Richard.

Richard nodded, taking the scolding as it was intended. "Indeed, Uncle. I ask your forgiveness—and yours, Lady Tyrell—for implying otherwise, and I sincerely hope no harm comes from our lightness," he apologised solemnly.

"We are sorry, Uncle, Lady Clara," Alice agreed softly. "We didn't know..."

"Please don't be angry with us," Joan added meekly.

"I'm not angry," Lady Clara assured her softly. "Only a little afraid. And though I am likely the last person in Christendom with the right to chide you for gossiping..." Father made a low coughing sound that might've been laughter, and Lady Clara paused to send a swift glare at him, before going on, "some things must stay silent, and my presence in your lives and the frequency in which I visit you is one of those things. At least at the moment."

"But why can we not admit we know you?" Alice wondered. Gregory, truth be told, was wondering the same thing, and wondering if this was why he hadn't heard a single thing about his father's new friend until she appeared before him.

Gregory watched as his father and Lady Clara shared another look, communicating silently in the way Father and Ralph did, sometimes. "I... might have collected some enemies in my quest to keep Arthur," Lady Clara admitted slowly, after a moment.

She glanced at Father, who elaborated, "Until we can prove that Lady Tyrell means no harm to anyone, it is better that we keep our association discreet, lest we anger some powerful people."

"The Boleyns?" Gregory asked, contributing to conversation for the first time. Of course, when he saw the reactions to his words, he wished he'd kept silent. Richard winced a little, probably worried that he'd be scolded again for his indiscretion; Alice bit her lip and looked down; Joan gasped a little, and turned curiously to Father; Lady Clara shivered a little, and clutched her son closer.

Meanwhile, Father looked annoyed that he'd spoken the name aloud. "Perhaps," he said shortly. "Suffice to say, I wish for your continued discretion in the matter of Lady Tyrell's presence, and desire no more talk of any... deeper connection between her and myself."

"Yes, Father," Gregory murmured, looking down at his hands. His cousins voiced similar assent.

"Good," Father said, standing from the table. "Now, let's hear no more of it. I have some business to discuss with Ralph. I shall see you all at supper." And with that, he left the hall. Most of the tension seemed to go with him.

"We're sorry, Lady Clara," Alice said quietly, once Father was gone.

"It's all right, Alice," Clara assured her gently. "But have a care in the future. Words can be the most dangerous weapons in the world, and information—even if it's false... perhaps especially if it's false—can wound deeper than any blade." She glanced over to where Gregory sat, and smiled at him. "I suppose this is why you seemed so unhappy with me, earlier?" she inquired, with a faint hint of laughter in her voice.

Gregory felt his ears grow hot. "Er," he said, feeling deeply mortified that he'd treated her so rudely on the basis of false gossip. "I'm sorry for my rudeness, Lady Tyrell," he apologised, knowing he really did owe her the apology. "I... there's no excuse, but I was... upset."

"What did you say to her?" Joan demanded, clearly ready to fly to Lady Clara's defence.

"Nothing of note," Lady Clara said before Gregory could speak, in a tone of voice meant to bring a close to the subject. Her dark eyes caught his, and in them he read forgiveness. She would say nothing to anyone about his earlier churlishness, and he was glad of it. "Gregory, I don't mean to replace your mother," she assured him earnestly. "Your father has come to be a very dear friend, and I will not lie and say that I do not like him, because I do—very much." She paused, and smiled sadly, and when she spoke again her voice was laden with grief. "But you see, I loved my husband."

"I miss Papa," contributed Arthur in a small, sad little voice from where he cuddled into his mother.

"So do I, dear heart," Clara murmured into his chestnut hair. She took in a shuddering breath, then released it and shifted her son back onto the bench. "Now, girls, let us finish our lesson."

Richard wandered over and ruffled Arthur's dark hair. "Shall we go out and see the hawks, Arthur?" he offered kindly.

Arthur shook his head, and clung to his mother's sleeve. "Want to stay with Mama," he mumbled, burying his face in her skirts.

"I will still be here when you return, sweetheart," Clara assured her son with a smile. "No one will take you away while you are within these walls." A strangely thoughtful expression bloomed on Arthur's childish face, and he accepted Richard's hand and trotted out of the hall beside him. "Richard," she called after them, "remember that you promised to sit for me."

"If not tonight, then Thursday," Richard called back.

Clara nodded. "I should like if you would consent to sit for me as well, Master Gregory," she added, turning to him with a tentative smile.

"Sit?" Gregory repeated, willing to accept the plainly-offered olive branch but unsure of what she meant.

"Lady Clara is doing drawings of all of us for Uncle Thomas' Christmas present," Alice explained with a grin. "But shh! It's a secret."

Gregory consented to sitting for Lady Tyrell at her pleasure, and excused himself to let them finish their lesson. He knew he'd misjudged the lady and thereafter stuck his foot in his mouth, and he wanted to go and nurse his humiliation in private for a least a little while.

The conversation at supper revolved mostly around Christmas, and the coming celebrations. But it seemed that they couldn't say much without tripping over a hole that death had left, which seemed much deeper and darker now at Christmastide than it had since it was first made, and causing the talk to die for a moment. Consequently, the meal was rather quiet.

Afterwards, Lady Clara excused herself and her son and said they ought to return to their lodgings. Given the way Alice and Joan reacted, it was customary for her to remain for much longer, and Gregory couldn't help but feel it was his fault she was leaving so early.

Father rose to escort her out, and after a moment Gregory followed, unsure if he was going to apologise to Lady Tyrell once more for his rudeness or try and catch them alone together and prove that neither Father nor his lady were being entirely forthright. He paused in the door to the antechamber in the back, watching as Lady Clara tried to get her son into his coat as his father stood a marked distance away.

"...sorry about earlier," Lady Clara was saying softly. "I didn't mean to be so... er. I didn't mean to disparage your family."

"You were honest, Clara; I will never fault you for that," Father replied dismissively. "You are gently born, from a well-established family, and I am the base-born son of a Putney brewer. These are facts; it would hardly be good of me to be angry about them."

"I thought your father was a blacksmith," Lady Clara said, glancing up at him from where she knelt on the floor.

In the dim candlelight, Gregory could see the wince in his father's profile. "My father was many things."

"My Papa was a knight!" Arthur piped in helpfully.

"Yes, my dear heart, he was," his mother agreed, kissing his forehead before standing. "He was a very fine knight."

"Grandfather is a knight, too," Arthur added. "I'm going to meet him tomorrow."

"Yes, you are," his mother concurred again, and unless Gregory was mistaken her voice was full of trepidation.

"I'm sure he shall like you very well," Father addressed Arthur kindly. "For you are a very fine lad."

"Thank you, Master Cromwell," Arthur replied gravely, going and attaching himself to his mother's skirts once more.

Lady Clara smiled down at her son and rested her hand on his head, before turning her gaze back to Gregory's father. They had some further speech, but it was too soft for him to overhear. Eventually, she reached forward, as if to take Father's hand, then stopped, paused, and drew back, standing for a moment in awkward stillness before turning and exiting the house at a brisk clip. Father stood in the doorway and watched her leave, sighing gently and running a hand through his curly hair. Did he wish that she had touched him? That she had tarried with them? That she was baser-born and could marry him?

Because Gregory understood a little better, now. Even if Lady Clara wasn't still in love with her dead husband, she was the daughter of a knight and the widow of a knight and belonged to a sphere to which neither Father nor himself could hope to ascend; you had to be born into that place to be truly accepted into it, and they hadn't been. Even if Father was in love with her, or she with him (and Gregory wasn't sure how likely he thought either of those premises), nothing could come of it. They had been born too far apart.

"Father?" Gregory said quietly, wanting to alert him that he wasn't alone.

Father startled a little, and turned around, his keen grey eyes finding Gregory unerringly, even where he lingered in the shadows. "Eavesdropping, Gregory?" he inquired with a quirk of his eyebrow.

Gregory felt his ears growing hot again. "I..." But he couldn't think of anything to say. At least, nothing that wasn't impudent. Such as, _are you in love with Lady Tyrell?_, or _why didn't you tell me about her?_, or _do you like Arthur better than me?_

After waiting a moment, Father just shook his head and clapped a hand to Gregory's shoulder. "Come, let us rejoin the others," he bid, drawing his son away from the door and back into the hall.

And though they were touching, Gregory couldn't help but feel as though he and his father were leagues apart.

* * *

**A/N part deux:** That seemed like a good place to end it, so that's where I did. Although Gregory is a very recalcitrant dude. He gave me more trouble...

_Historical notes:_ Even though we don't think much about it nowadays, social class was a really big thing back in Tudor times. You were born into a certain sphere, and maybe you could climb up a bit (and lots of people certainly fell), but for the most part you lived and died in that sphere. That's why the rise of people like Wolsey, Anne Boleyn, and Cromwell himself was so... surprising (or appalling, depending on who you were). They were born into a certain sphere, and managed to rise meteorically higher through the favour of the king. So when Clara, whose family has been gentry for a solid two centuries or so, is horrified at the thought of being connected romantically to Cromwell, who was pretty much born in a gutter, she's not just being missish; it was kind of a social taboo.

So yes. Please review and let me know what you thought of the new chapter?


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Well, here's what was the latter half of chapter 8, and which then became chapter 9 when it kept growing out of control. (Which is good, because it would've been 78 pages all told if I hadn't lopped it in half.)

Updates after this might be a bit slow. Work's gone mad (but, on the bright side, I've been taken on by an office temp agency, and shoudn't have to linger long in retail hereafter), and there's some seriously bad pet mojo going on at my house. I think one of the cats might be dying, and I think my snake has mouth-rot. I'm all, oh bugger. :(

Thanks go out to Nata2011 for pointing out a hole in my logic which I hope I have since corrected, and to WhenThePawn84 and Anne Taure and silvercrushx for providing me with impetus and inspiration. Now, onwards!

* * *

**Chapter 9:**

_18 December, 1528_

It had been nearly two years since Clara had last been in company with her father. The last time had been at Rosamond's wedding, when she married Sir Edward Mead in Essex. Clara had given birth to Constance a mere two months before, and the journey from Leicestershire had worn her out (she'd left Arthur and the new baby behind with Marion). When she wasn't with Rosa or Robin, she'd been sleeping, and had shared no meaningful conversation with her father... or her mother, to Clara's regret. That had been the last time she'd seen Lady Mary Gage alive.

A year later, Clara had gone back to Essex alone to attend her sister's funeral. Rosamond had died giving birth to a stillborn son. Neither Sir John or Lady Mary Gage had been able to attend.

But as she dressed her son in his finest clothes and prepared to take him forth to meet his grandfather, she couldn't quite melt the cold lump of fear that had taken up residence in her gut.

It was ridiculous! She was a grown woman of twenty-five, once married, now widowed, with control over a solid slice of Leicestershire. She'd stood up to Thomas Boleyn, she'd bargained with him and Spencer for control of her son's future—she'd even broken into an inn and made her way out of a brawl she'd accidentally started! The mere thought of being in her father's presence again shouldn't make her quake.

And yet, it did.

"Try not to look as though you're riding to your execution," Ben muttered as he climbed into the litter that would take them to the house outside the Moorgate where their father had taken lodgings with an old friend of his. His words were soft enough to be for her ears only. Neither of them wanted to prejudice Arthur against his grandfather.

"You're little better than I," Clara accused, watching him fidget nervously with his gloves. She glanced over at her son, who was looking up at her in plain confusion. She tried to force a smile onto her face, but feared it was a sickly thing. "Do you remember what I told you about your grandfather?" she asked.

Arthur nodded. "I must be quiet," he replied, remembering what she'd told him. "And I mustn't speak unless he talks to me first. And I can't say anything 'bout Richard or the hawks or Master Cromwell, a'cause it's a secret."

"Because, sweetheart, because it's a secret. But you are a good boy for remembering all that," Clara praised, pressing a kiss to her son's forehead.

Sooner than Clara would've liked, the litter arrived in the courtyard of Sir John Gresham's home, within sight of London but not as much within sound. Sir John Gage had never been one to tolerate noise gracefully, and had only gotten more stringent in his demands for silence as he aged. Ben got out first, and helped his sister descend before they both jumped Arthur down onto the gravel. A servant was waiting for them as they approached the doors, and they were all escorted into the house and relieved of their coats and cloaks.

Clara took deep, silent breaths through her nose and strained her ears as best she could, knowing even as she did so that she would hear nothing unless Father allowed it. His ears were just as good as hers, and she winced inwardly at the loudness of Arthur's footsteps as they were shown into a withdrawing room off the hall. Due to the fact that Arthur had apparently inherited Robin's hearing instead of her own, and the fact that Clara had learned to live with a measure of grating noise, her son had never had a need to move with the same kind of silence that the Gage children had taught themselves early on. She only hoped her father would not be too upset.

And then, there he was.

Clara's heart skipped a beat.

Her father had aged visibly. That was the first thought that struck her upon seeing him. Even in the two years since Rosamond's wedding, his dark hair—the same dark hair she and Ben and now Arthur all shared—had turned steely grey, and the lines on his face had grown deeper. But his eyes, those same brown eyes which, of all his children, only Clara had inherited, were still sharp and bright.

"You're both too damn loud," was all Sir John Gage said in greeting.

"We do heartily beg your pardon, Father," Benedict apologised softly. "London is a noisy city, and we are out of practice."

Sir John just grunted. "Can't abide it, here," he grumbled. "Still," he added, casting an eye to Benedict's fine clothes, "looks like you're doing well enough for yourself. And this is my grandson, eh?" He turned his gaze down to Arthur, who was clinging tightly to his mother's skirts.

Arthur stepped forward and silently offered his grandfather a little bow, standing unflinchingly under Sir John's scrutiny—at least, as much as a boy of four could do. Clara was inestimably proud of him, though the lump of fear in her stomach grew colder. Her son was not trained in silence the way she'd been; would Father hold it against him?

The coldness thawed, slightly, however, when her father smiled down at her son. "Aye, he's a bonny lad. Takes after me, he does—a Gage to the bone!" Sir John proclaimed proudly. Clara supposed he would be flattered; she looked very much like her father, and as her son looked much like her, her son also looked much like his grandfather. Sir John turned his attention, then, to his daughter, giving her a warm, paternal smile. "You've done well then, my Clara-child," he praised, coming forth to pat Arthur on the head, and then give Clara a gentle chuck under her chin.

"Thank you, Father," Clara replied lowly with a quick curtsey.

"Come then," Sir John beckoned, walking back over to the chair he'd apparently been occupying before hearing of their arrival. "Sit down and rest yourselves. Sir John's gone to Greenwich today for some reason or other, but he asks to be remembered to you lot. Wine?" Without waiting for their answer, Sir John poured his children each a goblet of faintly-steaming wine. As expected, both Clara and Ben immediately sipped the proffered beverage. It had probably been hot a while ago, but was only lukewarm now.

"Sir John," muttered their father into the silence. "Too many bloody Johns. Your mother wanted to name you John, you know," he added to Benedict, preparing to repeat an oft-told story. "I told her no! Fool woman, there's too damn many Johns in this family, and in this whole country! I'm a John, as was my father, as was his! I've got at least six Johns among my friends; can't keep 'em all straight. So we called you Benedict," he finished. "Good strong name, that—and I've only heard of a handful of Benedicts, so you'll be sure to stand out."

Arthur, sitting quietly beside his mother, looked curiously at his uncle, then at his mother, and then back at his grandfather. He opened his mouth to speak, but Clara pressed her hand to his swiftly, reminding him not to speak until he was spoken to. The boy shut his mouth, then, but not before they'd gained the attention of Sir John.

Apparently, however, Clara's father was in a good mood, since he smiled indulgently at his grandson. "Got a story for your mother too, boy," the old man said. "Want to hear it?" Arthur nodded excitedly. "Well, your mother was born on the 11th of August. Know which saint that day belongs to?" Arthur shook his head, making Sir John shoot a scowl Clara's way. "He doesn't know his saint's days yet?" he demanded of his daughter.

"He is but four, Father," Clara replied meekly. That, and the fact that she had vowed to do her best to raise her son as far outside the superstitions of the Catholic Church as she could without getting them both burned for heresy. She'd rather her son learn Bible stories from the gospels than memorise saints.

"Four's old enough! See to it that he learns his saints, daughter!" Sir John snapped back, before turning back to the story. "Well, Arthur, that day is the Feast Day of Saint Clare. Now, your grandmother was a Mary, and your mother's godmother was a Mary. So what do you think your grandmother wanted to name our new baby?"

"Mary!" cried Arthur brightly, as enthusiastic as he was when his mother quizzed him on his lessons.

His grandfather, however, was not so indulgent, nor as tolerant. "Quiet, boy!" Sir John growled. "Lower your voice! But yes, she wanted to call our baby Mary. That's three Marys! Too many! Well, since it was Saint Clare's day, I decided we'd honour her and christen the babe for her. But Clare Gage... bah! No music in it. But 'Clara'... ah, that slid over the tongue like good wine." Sir John grinned over at his blushing daughter. "The best and quietest of my daughters, though not the prettiest. Now, what's this I hear about a wardship for your son there, Clara?"

There was nothing to do then but to revisit the whole sorry issue. The letter, her decision to challenge the case, the petitioning (and rejections) of Wolsey and Cromwell, the preparation of her brief and its presentation in court... and her (perhaps inevitable) defeat. She tried to continue and explain that she'd managed to bargain with Spencer, but her father cut her off.

"What? You lost? How could you lose?" he snarled.

"Father, I couldn't help it," Clara whispered. "Spencer had the backing of Lord Rochford... Thomas Boleyn."

"Boleyn," Sir John spat. "That fucking family—and the King's goggle-eyed whore!"

"Father!" Clara protested, her eyes wide and horrified. "My son—"

"Don't be such a mouse, Clara," her father growled. "Best your boy learns now about those grasping, greedy climbers. Heretics, the lot of them! Heretics and Frenchmen! And that woman, that Great Harlot! She's no better than she ought to be, thinking herself high and mighty enough to pull down Queen Katherine! And to take a son from his mother—your son! Those jumped-up merchants to take my grandson! Your forefathers were fighting for the White Rose while theirs were selling sheep in Calais! And she thinks she'll be queen! Faugh!" Sir John spat onto the floor. "That's for Nan Bullen!"

Arthur's dark eyes were huge in surprise, and Clara resolved to have a stern talk with her son about what kind of words he was and was not allowed to repeat. All she needed was to have her son calling Anne Boleyn a whore within George Spencer's earshot. It hardly bore thinking about.

Benedict spoke up, then, in support of his sister. "Well, Father, you'll be happy to hear that Clara outfoxed the lot. Spencer might have charge of Arthur, but Clare got control over the lands, which are to be held in trust, and she used them to bargain with him. She's got joint custody—Spencer can't buy Arthur a new suit of clothes without Clara's consent." This was a slight exaggeration, as Benedict well knew, but if it would assuage their father's temper Clara would say nothing to the contrary and let the lie stand.

Unfortunately, it seemed to have the opposite effect. Sir John's face grew mottled as his features darkened with anger. "Bargain?" he repeated scornfully, slamming his hands onto the arms of the chair and using them to propel himself to his feet, where he stormed furiously around the room. "Bargain! My daughter had to bargain like a merchant to retain rights to her own child? What has England come to? Grasping harlots decked with jewels in the queen's place and a Gage dickering with the descendants of tradesmen to keep something that belongs to her anyway? By the steaming blood of Christ!" roared Sir John, waving his arms. Then he turned on Clara, stomping to where she sat and grabbing her neck in a harsh grip. "What the devil did you think you were doing? Bargaining?" he demanded, giving her a shake.

"Father, I only thought—" Clara began in a slightly choked voice as her father's thumb dug into the tender skin of her throat.

"Thought?" Sir John scoffed. "And who gave you leave to think? Let alone behave so immodestly, with a forwardness unbecoming of a woman?"

Clara didn't think it was worth mentioning that she was a rich widow now, and quite her own mistress. If she wanted to deck herself in jewels, or marry a blacksmith, or run off to Italy—or deck herself in jewels to marry a blacksmith and run off to Italy—there was no one who could tell her otherwise. (Admittedly, she wouldn't ever dream of doing any of these things, because to do so would be to lose Arthur. If things were different, though... she could do whatever she wanted. There was certainly no one to gainsay her, now that Robin was dead.) However, considering the tightness of her father's grip on her neck, it was probably not the best thing to bring up.

"Appearing in court, running about and bargaining like a hoyden—I certainly didn't raise you up to act thusly," Sir John muttered blackly, tightening his grip on her neck. "In the future, daughter, mind that you act with appropriate womanly meekness, or I'll come down from Norfolk and tan your hide. Boleyn might encourage such immodesty from those harlots he calls daughters, but I intend to take a firmer hand. I'll have no forward behaviour out of you, Clara—you hold your tongue and mind your place. Understand?"

All Clara could do was release a choked, squeaking, "Yes, Father."

That seemed to content him, since he shook her once more and released her. Clara took a few slow, quick breaths, but otherwise made no other movement or acknowledgement of either the chastisement, Ben's worried expression, or her son's frightened trembling.

At least Father hadn't hit her.

That show of temper and Clara's meek submission seemed to have sated Sir John at the moment, since he returned to his seat and drank his wine without further comment. The family sat in silence for long minutes, with Benedict and Clara knowing too well to speak out of turn, and Arthur too anxious.

Finally, Sir John spoke again. "Well, if the boy's going to be raised by a Boleyn... Ben, you need to have a son of your own to inherit. I won't have my lands going to some Boleyn creature when I'm dead!"

"I think you're being unfair to both Arthur and Clara, Father," Benedict replied quietly, casting a glance at Arthur, who was shrinking back towards his mother and reaching for her skirts. "Besides, Spencer isn't technically a Boleyn."

"The devil does that matter?" Sir John demanded, waving his son's worries away with an imperious hand. "You're going to marry, Benedict, and get a son to be heir to our lands."

"Sir, I do not wish—" Benedict began, and Clara knew he was trying to talk their father out of his idea of marrying his son off. Ben didn't want to marry; he was content with his current situation. Clara also knew, however, that her brother was going to lose this argument.

"Did you not hear me, boy!" Sir John roared. "You are going to marry! I've arranged it already."

Benedict looked as though he'd been struck. Clara cringed on his behalf. "And... who is the lady?" he asked, sounding as though he'd just been throttled about the neck instead of her.

"Lady Maud Knivert," Sir John replied, keeping his keen dark eyes fixed on his son. Did he suspect something behind his son's reluctance to take a bride? "She's the daughter of Lord Bromley—his younger daughter. And she's already in London, serving Queen Katherine. She comes with good money and good connections, so I'll hear nothing more about it from you, Ben. You're to be married this spring."

"How convenient that you have arranged it all so neatly," Benedict remarked, with a twist of bitterness in his voice.

"No lip from you, boy!" Sir John snapped, gesturing violently with his right hand. "It's all well and good to wench and carouse and enjoy your bachelor days, but you're of an age to take a wife and the estates need an heir! You'll marry the Knivert lass and like it!"

"Yes, Father," was all Ben could say. But Clara could also see the burning resentment in his green eyes.

She wondered what Agnes would think of the news.

The rest of the evening was an exercise in awkwardness. Being with her father again made Clara feel as though she was once more a child, and sliding back into the role of a meek, submissive little girl was like trying to fit her feet into too-small shoes. And she had to keep watch over Arthur, whom she could see plainly enough was both frightened and angered by his grandfather, and ensure that he said nothing out of turn to turn Sir John's wrath on him.

Though Clara played the part of a timid child, it was a role she had long since outgrown, and she was unsure if she would be able to keep her own temper should her father raise his hand to her son.

Thankfully, they made it through without anyone losing their temper. And once Benedict, Clara, and Arthur were all seated back in the litter, they all released a sigh of relief.

"Mama?" Arthur said in a tiny voice as they rolled back towards London.

"Yes, sweetheart?" Clara returned, glancing down at her son, huddled up beside her.

"Grandfather scares me," he confided softly. "He shouts."

"I know, darling," Clara murmured in return, stroking her son's soft brown hair. "He scares me too. But you were a good boy. You kept quiet and did not speak out of turn. I'm very proud of you."

By the time they arrived back at Lord Sedley's house, Arthur was nearly asleep. Benedict helped her carry him up to the nursery and to bed, and Clara could see that he was seething, inwardly. She tried to talk to him after Arthur was tucked in, but he just waved her off and left the house—perhaps he felt unequal to being in company. Sighing, Clara went to find Marion, who brushed Clara's dark hair and let her own be brushed without demanding anything. She was learning, it seemed, that there were things Clara could not tell her, and that demanding them would only make them both unhappy.

Clara buried her head under her pillows after she went to bed, desirous of hearing nothing. But she had a nightmare in the early hours of the morning, wherein her father had her son by his arm and was shaking him, as he had often shaken her in the past. And then her father's face morphed into that of George Spencer, who turned and smirked at her before dragging Arthur away.

She couldn't get back to sleep after that, and simply lay on her back, staring up into the darkness.

* * *

_19 December, 1528_

Lady Tyrell arrived very early on Thursday, while his father was still at court and the sun in the sky. She was alone, this time, and instead of going to Alice and Joan, she asked if Richard and Gregory were available to sit for her.

Gregory, remembering how rude he'd been to the lady upon their first meeting, still felt a little awkward and embarrassed while in her presence, but consented nonetheless. Richard was already prepared, and led them up to a room upstairs that had a wide bank of windows. It had once been Anne's room. Now, it was empty.

"You didn't bring Arthur this time?" Richard inquired as he threw open the dusty curtains.

"He's still recovering from meeting his grandfather," Lady Clara replied dryly. "And my brother was giving him and Henry—Lady Agnes' son—piggy-back rides as I left. I think he was content to remain and play, rather than watch his mother sketch in silence."

"He's let go of your skirts, then," Richard joked. "Gregory, bring that here, would you?" he bid, pointing to a chair against the wall. Gregory did as Richard asked.

"For the moment, yes," Clara confirmed, her smile turning sad before she sighed gustily and set her satchel down on the table where once Anne Cromwell had studied Greek. "Well, shall we begin? I'd like to be mostly finished before Thomas—that is, Master Cromwell—arrives home," she said, correcting herself when she referred to Father as 'Thomas' and directing Richard to the chair Gregory had placed in one of the weak sunbeams that streamed through the window. "Though I don't fool myself into thinking that he will be entirely surprised. He probably knows what I'm up to—he usually does," she added wryly, "but he won't have seen the drawings, and that will be at least a bit of a surprise."

"May I see them?" Gregory inquired, eyeing the folio the lady had placed on the table beside her. The one she'd been carrying on Tuesday had been a simple, business-like leather, but this one was cloth—silk, if he was any judge—and covered in embroidered flowers.

Lady Clara smiled at him, and gestured to the folio, giving him tacit consent before turning back to Richard and taking up her charcoal crayon. Gregory opened the folio and paged through the leaves of paper. There were several pages with tiny drawings of Alice and Joan (apparently, Lady Clara was doing the drawings of the Austin Friars household in miniature), a couple of Arthur, and many of people he didn't recognise. Here was a handsome young man, and a beautiful young woman. Here was an older man, and a lovely lady, and a baby; he couldn't tell if it was a boy, or a girl. Here was a tower in the middle of a bower of roses, and a fanciful palace in a valley. Here were plants and a vague outline of a horse, here the London skyline and a castle next to a forest. It seemed Lady Clara drew whatever caught her fancy.

"These are very good," Gregory murmured to himself.

"Thank you," Lady Clara replied, startling him. He had not thought he was loud enough to be overheard.

Gregory hovered quietly behind her as he watched her draw. Over and over, Richard's face appeared on the parchment, drawn in stark, simple lines of black on white. Occasionally, something would go awry—the line of Richard's face was not to her liking, or she drew too sharply the angle of his nose—and Lady Clara would scribble it out, muttering to herself. But most of the time, she sketched out Richard's head, and then went on to draw another one.

Once she had three pages full of Richard's face, Clara thanked him and sent him on his way. Richard moved the chair into the sunlight, which had moved slightly, and grinned at Gregory on his way out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

There was silence for a long moment. Lady Clara was staring at him, and he was slightly uncomfortably under her clear brown eyes. "Shall I sit?" Gregory asked tentatively.

"In a moment," Lady Clara replied. "I... if you don't mind, I should like to talk to you for a time, and get a feel for your face, and how it looks and moves."

He could feel his cheeks growing hot. He'd never had anyone tell him they wanted to look at him, before. Well, except Mama, who had always wanted to make sure he appeared his best. But even she hadn't studied him the way Lady Clara was studying him now.

As if she'd read his mind, Clara bid him, "Tell me about your mother, Master Gregory. Your mother," she added with a sly, playful smile, "who is prettier than me."

Now his entire face was surely as red as a bolt of crimson damask. "I did apologise for that," he mumbled.

"I know," Lady Clara assured him. "I don't mind, truly. I have had my whole life to reconcile myself to my plainness. Look," she bid him, shuffling through her sketches and fishing out a leaf covered with sketches of a beautiful young woman. "This was my younger sister, Rosamond. Mind you, this sketch doesn't do her beauty justice... I did these from memory, after her death," the lady added, growing suddenly sombre. "Dear Rosa. She had beautiful golden hair and bright green eyes and skin like peaches and cream—and she could sing like an angel. And this," she said, shifting the papers to pull out a page which displayed another lovely face, "this is my sister-in-law, Marion. She's here in London, with me—and for all that she's a spinster, she's still very beautiful. I keep asking her why she does not marry again, but she says she's content to remain with Arthur and me. She sewed this for me," she commented proudly, flipping the cover of the folio closed to display the embroidery, before flipping it back open, making the papers inside slide around with the particular noise of parchment on parchment which had been part of Gregory's life for as long as he could remember. "She has such a talent with a needle."

"Who is this?" Gregory asked, pointing to a drawing of a baby on the same page as a tiny sketch of Arthur. "Is that Arthur?"

He wished he'd bit his tongue as Lady Clara grew sad again, trailing the backs of her fingers along the lines of her sketch. "No. This was my daughter, Constance," she replied, so softly that Gregory could barely hear her. "She died in the Sweat. And she was but two years old."

The misery in her voice struck a chord within Gregory's chest, and he found himself confiding, before he was entirely aware of it, "I lost my sisters in the Sweat, too. This... was Anne's room."

Lady Clara's dark eyes darted up to his, and in them he saw the same grief that had been dogging him for the past year and a half, and compassion for the same. "Tell me about them," she suggested gently. "Talking about the loved ones we lost is sometimes the best way to feel as though they are still with us. Tell me about your sisters."

And Gregory did. By then, he was sitting in the chair, letting the fading sunlight shine across his shoulders as Lady Clara sketched and he told her about his clever sister Anne, who knew Latin and Flemish and Italian and wanted to learn Greek, who wanted to marry Ralph Sadler one day and who would knock down any person who stood in her way. Anne, who was Father's darling. He told her about his gentle sister Grace, with her quiet serenity and her wide-eyed innocence, who had a surprising knack for mathematics and liked to make flowers out of ribbons. Grace, who was everyone's angel. And he spoke of his mother—his soft, golden, lovely mother who moved around the house with her prayer-book in her hands, and who could nevertheless make a butcher or a merchant quail at the gimlet look in her blue-green eyes. Mama could make Anne giggle and Grace dance, could make Gregory witty, and could make his father easy and approachable. Now that Mama was gone, Father was grown harder and cold.

"He doesn't laugh anymore, now that she's dead," he finished gloomily.

"I made him laugh, once," Lady Clara commented in return. Gregory cast a wary look her way, wondering if she was implying something, but she was frowning down at her sketches. "But it was more something I did than anything I said."

"What did you do?" Gregory wondered, curious about what she had done that had so amused his father, and wondering if he might act along similar lines himself.

Clara winced, and her cheeks flushed red. "Er. I don't think I ought to tell you. It's not... well. I oughtn't have done what I did," she admitted sheepishly. She smiled nervously, and changed the subject back. "So, your mother!"

Though Gregory was burning with curiosity to know what this lady wished she hadn't done, and especially why it made his father laugh, he couldn't very well demand to know. So he instead told Lady Clara about the spice cakes his mother used to bake for Christmas, and how he'd go down to the kitchen to try and snitch bites of batter, and how Mama had chased him away with a wooden spoon... but how she'd be sure to sneak him a cake still warm from the oven before she shooed him off.

"I wish I'd had a mother like yours," she remarked wistfully, pausing in her drawing to rest her chin on her hand, which left smudges of charcoal on her fair skin. "It sounds as though she was very... affectionate. Warm. Loving."

"She was," Gregory agreed. "But why, what was your mother like?"

Lady Clara's lips twisted into an expression Gregory wasn't sure should be accounted a wry smile or a grimace. "Mother was... delicate," she replied after a moment of thought. "She had horrible headaches, so bad that she'd swoon and need to be carried to bed. She'd have the servants draw the curtains and demand absolute quiet... and God help you if you disturbed her. She'd give you a scolding you'd not soon forget and box your ears, which would bring Father, roaring and ranting about all the noise, and then there'd be a horrible row, someone would get a smack, and everyone would cry and be miserable." She shuddered. "I spent most of my time in the chapel, when I wasn't tagging along after Ben."

"Praying?" Gregory inquired, wondering if she knew about Father's propensity for German books.

"Hiding," Lady Clara said with a quicksilver grin.

As the light began to fade into dusk and one of the servants brought them a candle, Lady Clara put her crayon down and sat back. "Well, I think that will be it for the day. Candles or not, I'm having trouble seeing my own sketches, and if I keep squinting I'll follow in my mother's footsteps and take to bed with a headache. Thank you for obliging me, Master Gregory," she said, brushing a wisp of hair from her forehead and leaving another streak of charcoal on her skin, to match the one on her chin.

"The pleasure was mine." And it wasn't just a courtly phrase, either—Gregory found that the time had flown by as he spoke about his family, and he was surprised to discover she had been right, and that he felt better after talking about those lost to death. Father never seemed to mention the ones who were no longer with them, and seemed pained whenever their names were spoken. But he wasn't currently at home, and for an hour or so, it was as though Mama and Anne and Grace were not dead, but merely gone out of the house for a moment. Besides, Lady Clara was a good listener, and a kind lady. He felt a little bad for having resented her so fiercely before. "May I see?" he asked, indicating the drawings.

Lady Clara just smiled and beckoned him over. There, staring up at him from the table, were some very good likenesses of himself. "What will you do now?" he wondered. "Give all of them to my father?"

"No." Lady Clara shook her head. "I will chose the best, and copy it out onto fine vellum, and then make a series of little miniatures with painted paper frames." She shrugged a little as she tucked her charcoal into a cloth. "I'm only a lady playing at being an artist, but Thomas doesn't appear to have any likenesses of anyone—none that I've seen, anyway—so I suppose it's better than nothing. I wish I'd known your sisters and your mother, though... I'd have drawn them for him, too," she added softly. "It is a horrible thing to bury a child—even worse than burying a spouse."

"Did you ever do any drawings of your husband?" Gregory asked, a little disconcerted by the tenderness with which she spoke of his father, and desirous of shoving Thomas Cromwell out of her mind and reminding her of her late husband, whom she actually loved.

Lady Clara lit up. Clearly, she welcomed the chance to talk about her husband, as Gregory had enjoyed speaking of his mother. "I do," she replied, nodding. "But let us go down where there is more light."

Soon enough, they were back in the hall with candles and torches casting a golden glow over all of them. Alice and Joan professed an eagerness to see Lady Clara's drawings as well, and hovered over her shoulder; it was Gregory who was favoured enough to sit beside her.

She drew out a sketch of the older man Gregory had marked earlier. "This was Robin—Sir Robert Tyrell, that is... my husband," she announced, and no one could be deaf to the fondness in her voice. She had other drawings of him as well—there was one of Sir Robert and a much younger Arthur hanging off his leg, one of Sir Robert holding a baby (Constance?) in his arms, a Sir Robert on a horse (and Clara winced at the poor proportions of the sketch even as Alice and Joan giggled at how awful it was)...

Joan whispered something to Alice which Gregory couldn't hear. Lady Clara, however, seemingly could.

"He was older than I was, yes," she confirmed mildly, making Joan pale, and then blush bright pink. Apparently she hadn't meant to be overheard. "But he was kind and courtly, and the best husband I could have ever hoped for."

"How did you meet him?" Alice asked, her dark eyes gone starry and mushy.

Gregory rolled his eyes at such girlish, romantic silliness.

Before she could answer Alice's query, Lady Clara cocked her head to the side, as if she was listening to something no one else could hear. "Your father is home," she informed Gregory softly. She cast a grin over her shoulder at Alice and Joan as she began to arrange her drawings, hiding the ones she intended to make into a Christmas gift. "I fear he will be cross with us—we have done very little work tonight."

"How do you know he's home?" Gregory wondered.

Lady Clara tapped her left ear with a smile. "I have very good hearing. Quick now, let us look as though we are busy!"

And sure enough, within a minute or so, when Father stuck his head into the hall, he found Alice and Joan and Lady Clara bent over some papers, and Gregory beside them, trying not to laugh.

* * *

Thomas didn't have a chance for private conversation with Clara until she was on her way out the door at the end of the evening. She made a point of keeping physical distance between them, shying away when he helped her into her cloak. He assumed she'd been spooked by the assumptions the other night that they were affianced. Which were not as entirely preposterous as Clara supposed. Yes, they belonged to different spheres, but wealthy mercers had managed to rise into the ranks of the gentry before—Anne Boleyn's ancestor Geoffrey was a case in point—and Clara was not so well-born that such a marriage would be universally condemned. For certain, she would draw a measure of scorn for marrying below herself, and he himself would be accused of social climbing (especially since he was even baser-born than Geoffrey Boleyn), but it wasn't something impossible for either of them. And if it weren't for the fact that George Spencer was fishing for anything he could use against Clara... well, Thomas liked to think she wouldn't be so completely opposed to the idea if it weren't for Spencer.

But she did say the mere idea was ludicrous.

He sighed inwardly, and shoved the thoughts away. Perhaps it was for the best that Clara had professed herself so firmly opposed to any romantic entanglement with him. If she'd shown herself willing... if she looked up at him with those big, clear brown eyes of hers and gave him that smile which made her shine and placed herself—all of herself—wholly in his hands and his heart and his bed... Thomas couldn't be certain that he wouldn't lose his mind and take that which she offered so freely, damning the consequences for himself and for her. So perhaps it really was for the best.

That didn't lessen the sting, though, which still pricked at him even days later.

"I quite like your son," Clara commented with a smile, checking that her satchel was properly packed.

"Gregory?" Thomas wondered. He'd thought he'd noticed a measure of tension between his eldest and Clara when he saw them on Tuesday. Though perhaps that had been Gregory displaying a slight resentment towards the woman he'd thought was to replace his mother.

"Unless you have another of whom I'm unaware," Clara replied, mock-seriously. Thomas thought briefly of possible bastards, sown across Europe when he was young, perhaps borne by one or more of the handful of women he'd tumbled as a weedy teen, before he knew better. If such children existed, he had no knowledge of them, nor they he. "We had a good talk today, Master Gregory and I. I quite like him."

"You got conversation out of him? I am impressed," Thomas remarked, making a conscious effort to sound neither sarcastic nor bitter. Sometimes it seemed as though Gregory regarded him as a complete stranger. Whenever they were alone together, his son was fidgety and silent; when they tried to talk to each other, his son was tongue-tied and awkward. It hadn't been like that when Liz and the girls were alive; their absence from the family seemed to have destroyed a bridge which previously father and son had used to relate.

"Thomas," Clara chided gently. "That's unfair. Gregory is quiet, perhaps, but he'll talk well enough if you choose the right subject." She paused for a moment, and then soldiered on. "He told me about his sisters, and his mother."

Thomas remained silent. He wasn't sure what she wanted from him. Or rather, he had a feeling he knew what she wanted, but was not of a mind to give it to her. Though Clara was his friend (and nothing more than his friend), he was not a man to discuss the contents of his heart or the people within it. And at the moment, he was not inclined to speak upon the subject of his dead wife and daughters. Especially not about Liz, and especially not with Clara, and especially not now that she'd announced any hopes he might've harboured to let her have Liz's place to be ludicrous. Unless he could only pry something out of Clara through such a sharing of confidences, (as he had last week), Thomas preferred to keep his past just where it belonged: in the past.

Clara's hand twitched, as though she wanted to reach out for him, but stopped herself from doing so—probably because she'd been unnerved by the suggestion of intimacy between them. Though he wished he didn't feel thusly, he was slightly annoyed with the young people in his household and their inability to keep their mouths shut, for it had pushed things out into the open which perhaps didn't need to be there, and had once more made Clara leering of touching him. _It seems with this woman, it is one step forward_, he thought dryly, _and two steps back_.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she said softly. "I know how much it hurts. And I don't know if I ever told you. I think I meant to... but I think you made me cry, first," she added thoughtfully.

"I did apologise for that," Thomas protested mildly, gladly taking the opportunity to steer the conversation away from the dead. "A young man I knew from Cambridge is to preach this Sunday. Shall you come?"

Clara bit her lip, and he could easily read the conflict on her face. "I had better not risk it," she eventually decided regretfully. "Not with my father here. He wants to see us on Sunday, you see—we're all to attend mass together," she explained, a pained expression on her face. "I wish I could, though. Good night, Thomas."

"I will miss your company," Thomas admitted. It was true; he'd gotten rather accustomed to seeing her—seeing her alone, and not needing to share her presence with the rest of his family—on Sundays. "Good night, Clara."

* * *

_22 December, 1528_

As it turned out, Thomas Cromwell and Clara Tyrell did manage to find themselves in company that Sunday.

The circumstances, however, were not the best.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon, and Gregory was reading quietly by the fire in the great hall. Alice was occupied with some sewing next to him; Joan was doing something with a mass of ribbons; Richard and Ralph were playing backgammon. The master of the house was ostensibly upstairs in his closet, but everyone was aware he was not actually at home.

A sudden noise from back of the house drew Gregory's attention from his book, and he looked from the pages of his book in bafflement. It sounded as though someone had arrived at the back of the house—and since he doubted it was Father come home, since he'd be welcomed back with much less hubbub, it could only be...

"Lady Clara!" Joan cried suddenly.

It was indeed the lady, standing in the door to the hall, her son cradled in her arms. But she looked different than she had the previous two occasions Gregory had been in her presence—instead of being neat and smartly put together, she was dishevelled. Her dark hair was falling out of the snood she'd tucked it in, and her dress was dusty and wrinkled.

Something had gone wrong.

"Come in and sit," Richard bid her swiftly, gesturing to a chair. "We didn't expect to see you today. Uncle Thomas isn't at home at the moment, if you were wondering."

Lady Clara practically staggered across the room, and sagged into the proffered chair, still keeping a tight grip on her son—who, Gregory could immediately see, was keeping a death-grip on her. Arthur had locked his arms around his mother's neck and buried his face in her shoulder, and he clung to her with all the tenacity of a barnacle to a ship's hull.

(Or so Gregory assumed. He'd never actually seen a barnacle on a ship's hull before.)

Up close, she looked even worse—her lips were pressed so tightly together as to be nearly colourless, her face was pinched with exhaustion, and her eyes were desperate and burning. Alice and Joan fluttered around her like birds, but she waved them off. "I'm so sorry to burst in on you like this," Lady Clara apologised immediately. "I... we were visiting my father, and... well, Thomas said if I had need of a haven, his house was always available to me, and I..."

Her dark eyes filled with tears suddenly, and Gregory read the panic on Richard's face. His cousin was never good with weeping women. Ralph, thankfully, kept a cool head and pulled a handkerchief out of his doublet, offering it wordlessly to Lady Clara, who accepted it one-handedly. The other was keeping a tight grip on her son, who seemed to be crying himself.

"Can we get you some wine?" Ralph offered calmly. Meanwhile, behind Lady Clara's back, he made frantic flapping motions to Alice and Joan which, to the best of Gregory's guesses, meant either _come here_, _go away_, _get some wine..._ or possibly _sprout wings and fly_. Apparently Ralph wasn't as calm as he sounded.

"Actually, a bowl of cold water and a cloth would serve much better," Lady Clara replied, and her tone of voice had shifted from tearful, near-hysteria to grim composure. In fact, as Gregory watched, she took in a deep breath and visibly pulled herself together, becoming less like a lost girl and more like a grown woman.

Alice immediately ran to get the water, Joan on her heels. Once they were gone, Lady Clara began to smooth her hand over Arthur's head, still cradled in the hollow where her neck met her shoulder. "Arthur, we're safe now. We're at Master Cromwell's house. Remember what I told you—that you are safe here, that no one will hurt you while you are within these walls? See," she whispered to him, "here is Richard, and Ralph, and Gregory. Alice and Joan went to fetch me some water, and then we shall clean your face. Come now, sweetheart, let me see."

After a bit more coaxing in a soft, gentle voice which seemed to be something all mothers could produce, Arthur finally lifted his head from Lady Clara's shoulder. Gregory, in a position to see the boy's face, gasped involuntarily before he could stop himself.

It was plain that the child had been crying; his eyes were red and swollen and his nose was all runny. But that was not the worst part. On the left side of Arthur's forehead, which he'd been pressing against his mother's body, was a deep cut, surrounded by dried blood and red skin which would likely become a vibrant bruise within a few days. It looked like he'd been struck on the head by a book or knocked into a table, and it probably hurt quite a bit.

"My poor boy," Clara murmured softly, smoothing her hand along the unhurt side of Arthur's face.

Alice and Joan hurried back into the hall, then, bearing an ewer full of water and a basin, respectively, and with a length of white cloth thrown over Alice's shoulder. It was probably a good thing Lady Clara and Arthur were placed in such a way that the girls didn't catch of glimpse of Arthur's face until after they'd set the ewer down, since Joan dropped the basin with a clatter and Alice gasped and pressed her hands to her mouth.

Lady Clara said nothing, but just carried her son over and set him on the table beside the ewer. Alice quickly bent to retrieve the dropped basin and placed it on the table to Arthur's left before reaching out to pat the boy; Arthur, however, shied away from her touch and grabbed for his mother. Looking slightly hurt but understanding, Alice beckoned to Joan. "Here, we'll rip this up for bandages," she ordered, pulling the length of linen off her shoulder.

The first strip was given to Lady Clara, and she wet it down and used it to wipe the dried blood off her son's head. Gregory thought he could pick out some blood on her dress, as well, though it was hard to tell given that she was clad from head to toe in black. Arthur was by and large silent as his mother dabbed at his wound, only whimpering a little.

Richard excused himself, saying he was going to see if he couldn't find someone with a balm or a poultice or something for Arthur's head. Ralph went with him, making noises about going into the city to find the master of the house. Gregory couldn't think of anything that would give him a reason to leave the hall and the terrible spectacle of a silent, furious mother tending to her wounded, miserable son.

No one was brave enough to ask what had happened.

Soon enough, Arthur's cut had been tended to. Richard came back with a poultice (and then excused himself again, obviously uncomfortable), and once Alice and Joan had finished tearing the linen into strips, Lady Clara bandaged the wound with the poultice pressing against his skin, winding the cloth around her son's head like a macabre crown. "There now," she said softly, tucking the linen back inside its own folds to secure it, and gently pressing a kiss to the fabric. "In a few days you'll be as good as new."

"I hate him," Arthur muttered darkly.

"No, you don't," his mother returned softly. "It may seem as though you do, but you do not. You're just angry. But you mustn't hate him, dearling. Remember the fourth commandment—honour thy father and thy mother."

"He's not my father," Arthur pointed out sullenly.

"But he is mine, so it still counts." Clara smoothed her hand over his hair, and murmured something else to him that was too soft for Gregory to hear. Which was perhaps for the best—this whole issue was probably intensely private, and Gregory felt like an intruder just for overhearing it. He shared a look with Alice, who seemed to be coming to the same conclusion as himself, if the discomfort and the pity on her face was any indication. Even Joan, young as she was, seemed to understand, given the way she reached for Alice's hand with distress on her childish features.

It wasn't that Gregory thought every family was as peaceful and happy as his own. Strained relationship with his father aside, neither parent had ever raised a hand to him, or his sisters. But he'd heard enough gossip over the years to judge that his paternal grandfather had not been the best of men, and that his father and aunts had not enjoyed pleasant childhoods. Knowing distantly and abstractly that some families could be violent and cruel, however, was completely different from having evidence planted before his eyes in the form of a four-year-old boy sitting on a table in his own home with blood and dried tears on his face.

Gregory wished Father was here. Father would know what to say, know how to offer comfort to Lady Clara and her son. All he and Alice and Joan could do was stand in awkward silence and watch as she kissed her son's head, and helped him slide off the table and back onto the floor.

Once he was standing on his own again, Arthur wobbled a little, and reached out for his mother. "My head hurts," he complained weakly, once more clinging to her skirts.

"I know, sweetheart," Clara replied sadly. "I know." And Gregory didn't doubt that she did. "Come, let us sit." She drew him over to a seat by the fire, sat down in Alice's chair and cradled her son in her lap, rocking him and singing a soft, lulling song whose words Gregory could not pick out. Arthur stuck his thumb in his mouth and let his mother rock him.

Alice and Joan went to collect the ewer, basin, and leftover linen and left to return them to their proper places. Gregory was left alone in the hall with Lady Clara and her son, and after an awkward moment went back to his seat—which was near hers—and took up his book again, though the words he read barely registered.

Arthur began to squirm a little after a time. "Mama, down?" he asked, pulling his thumb from his mouth. "Have to... um, use the jakes."

"All right, sweetheart," Lady Clara allowed, carefully placing her son down on the floor and watching with a worried expression on her face as he trotted out of the hall.

"Er... does he know where...?" Gregory asked haltingly, feeling as though he ought to say something, but unsure about what it should be.

"Yes," Lady Clara replied, sending a weak smile his way. "We've been visiting the house fairly regularly for a few weeks."

But as the minutes ran past with no sign of Arthur's return, Lady Clara grew steadily more agitated, absently chewing her lower lip and casting frequent, nervous glances at the door to the hall. "Perhaps he got lost?" Gregory suggested after watching her fidget for nearly ten minutes. "Or perhaps he went and found Richard. He likes Richard, doesn't he?"

"Yes," Lady Clara replied absently, knotting her hands in her skirts. "Still, perhaps I should go check..."

She no sooner vocalised the thought than she was out of her seat and skimming across the room towards the door, making so little noise that Gregory wondered if her feet were touching the ground at all, or if she was just flying right over the floorboards. He stood and followed after her, giving entirely up on his book. It wasn't enough to hold his attention anymore, and no matter what Lady Clara said, he doubted she knew every nook and cranny of the Austin Friars house like he did.

Arthur was not in the privy—any of them, and they were all checked. When Gregory and Lady Clara finally located Richard, down in the counting house, Arthur was not with them. Richard suggested checking with Alice and Joan, but when they found the two of them in the kitchen, there was no sign of Lady Clara's son.

"I'm sure he's still in the house," Gregory assured Lady Clara nervously, somewhat alarmed by the pallor of her face and the bright fear in her eyes. What was he supposed to do if she started crying or fainted or had some kind of fit? He really, really wished his father was here.

And then, he was.

As he and Lady Clara passed through the vestibule at the front of the house, she paused suddenly, and a good deal of the tension went out of her shoulders. Gregory wondered if she'd suddenly sighted her son, but then the door flew open and Ralph burst through. "Found him!" he announced proudly, and then stood aside so Father, wrapped in a thick coat with a fur-trimmed cap on his head, could enter.

Gregory relaxed as well. Father was here now, and he could sort everything out.

Father shed his hat and coat and glanced from Gregory to Clara, a furrow in his brow. "What is it?" he asked. "Clara? What's wrong? I thought you were with your father."

Lady Clara glanced at Gregory, silently ceding the explanations to him if he wanted them, but Gregory immediately gestured for her to speak. She needed no further encouragement, turning to Father and whispering, "I can't find Arthur. He said he was going to the privy, and then he vanished. Gregory and I have looked, but he's not with Richard, nor with the girls in the kitchen... what if he wandered out into London?"

Father stayed calm, placing his hands on Lady Clara's thin, shaking shoulders and speaking in a low, soothing voice, as though he were addressing a timorous bird or a skittish horse. "That is unlikely—the front door is too heavy for him to open, and the back gate is locked. Arthur is probably somewhere inside the house, hiding. I'll have Ralph and Gregory start searching, and we'll find him soon enough," he assured her, flicking his grey eyes to Ralph, who nodded in acceptance of the tacit orders, and then to Gregory, who did the same. "Now, come and tell me what brought you here, and why there is blood on your dress..." he went on, placing an arm around Lady Clara's shoulders and gently leading her back into the hall.

Gregory watched them go for a moment before turning back to Ralph. "I'll start looking upstairs if you want to coordinate the search down here," he offered. He remembered long games of hide-and-seek when he was younger and his sisters were alive, and most of the best hiding places had been upstairs... mostly because Mama hadn't allowed them to play near the kitchen or the counting house, but also because the slanting roof and the garret provided a lot of nooks and crannies into which a small child could easily squeeze.

"By all means," Ralph agreed laconically. His keen hazel-green eyes flicked towards the hall, then back to Gregory with a wry grin. "One of these days, she'll probably have her own key, you know," he remarked, before turning and heading towards the counting house.

Gregory considered this for a moment, and then shrugged. Surprisingly, the idea didn't bother him as much as it had a few days previously. Perhaps it was because he'd gained a better understanding of the lady in question and was coming to like her... or perhaps it was because, after seeing what he had tonight, he felt intensely sorry for her and couldn't grudge her for treating his home like a much-needed retreat when she needed one.

* * *

Thomas got Clara settled in a chair quickly, slightly alarmed at how little colour there was in her face. The last time he'd seen her look so pale, she ended up laid out flat on the floor of his closet at Whitehall.

It was a good thing he hadn't tarried with John Lambert over-long after the sermon his old friend had preached; he'd merely exchanged pleasantries, extended his compliments on the preaching, inquired about some mutual acquaintances, and then left. He hadn't even been halfway home when Ralph found him, saying something about how Lady Tyrell and her son had shown up, bloody and in tears, on their doorstep, and could they please hurry home because Richard hated weeping women and would probably leave the whole matter in Gregory's hands. Not that it seemed Gregory had done a bad job with her—Clara wasn't crying anymore, for one—but the naked relief on his son's face when Thomas had stepped through the door was almost amusing.

What was not amusing was the pain, fear, and anguish he could see in Clara's ashen face, or the dried blood his practised eye could see on the shoulder of her black gown.

As he went to pull away and take his own seat, Clara's cold hand latched onto his own, holding him in place. Thomas turned back. "What is it?" he asked again, softly, letting her hold him in place, enjoying the feel of her skin against his, even if it was something as innocuous as the palm of her hand on the backs of his fingers. He quashed the rising desire to feel her soft, chilly hands on other parts of his body, and to put his own on other parts of hers; not only was it wholly inappropriate—and ludicrous, as Clara had said last week—it was also excessively bad timing. The woman was near in tears for whatever reason, her son was missing, she'd run to his house for succour and peace, and there he was lusting after her. "Clara, tell me what happened. I can't help you if I don't know," he murmured, letting his other hand rise to cover hers, feeling the birdlike bones of her knuckles under the skin of his palm.

Clara's face was sad. "You can't help me, Thomas," she replied. "Or rather, you've already helped me. You let me come here when I needed to hide. I don't know what would've happened, otherwise."

"What did happen?" Thomas pressed. "I let you come here, but if there's danger following behind..."

Not that he truly thought there was any danger (although Thomas supposed it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, given the things Clara could do and would do when pressed), but Clara was proving herself surprisingly unwilling to confide in him, and he wanted to know what had brought her to his doorstep. If that meant using guilt and emotional manipulation on the lady... well, it wasn't as though he wouldn't keep her confidences. He just needed to know; Clara was not the only person under his protection.

Sure enough, guilt immediately spread across Clara's open face. "Oh. Oh Thomas, I'm sorry," she immediately apologised. "I didn't think, I was just so desperate to get away—I stole Ben's horse," she added suddenly, cringing a little.

"You must have been desperate indeed," Thomas prompted, seating himself on the bench beside her chair while still keeping hold of her hand.

Clara took a deep breath, then slowly released it, her shoulders slumping. Thomas tightened his grip on her, knowing he'd won, and that she was going to tell him everything. "Ben, Arthur and I met Father and his friend Sir John Gresham for mass this morning at St. Mary Moorfields, and went thence to Gresham's house. Benedict was... um. Upset," she began haltingly. "Father informed him Friday that he negotiated a marriage for him and that it is to take place this spring, but Ben doesn't want to marry... and I'm sure you can guess why."

He nodded, wordlessly encouraging her to go on. Clara bit her lip, and then kept talking. "Once we were back at the house, Ben... ah, tried again to talk Father out of it. He should've known better, of course—no one could ever turn Father from a decision he's already made," she added glumly. "But he tried anyway—he really does love Agnes, I think—and naturally, Father didn't take kindly to it, and naturally, there was a row," she grimaced, growing more agitated, her pallid face growing flushed with anger. "He should've known better—Ben should've known better! There's no point in arguing with Father about anything, because you'll never win," she grumbled bitterly. "But he argued. He shouted, Father shouted, Father shouted at him for shouting, I tried to calm them down and got shouted at and then... then..."

She bowed her head, breathing swiftly as though to ward off tears, and a soft tumble of brown hair slid across her shoulder and hung down, hiding her face. Thomas took his hand off the top of Clara's to reach out and brush it away, letting the sides of his fingers stroke along the soft skin of her cheek, unsure if he meant it as a comfort or a flirtation. He was close enough to hear the hitch in her breathing as his skin whispered over hers, and when her eyes sought his they were dark and uncertain... before they cleared as she smiled gratefully at him. It seemed she was taking the gesture as one of condolence.

Just as well, he supposed, since anything else was ludicrous.

"I should have sent Arthur away as soon as the shouting started," Clara whispered. "I should've taken him, and left Father and Ben to tear themselves apart if they so pleased. But Arthur... he doesn't want to be out of my sight now, since he learned that he's to live with Spencer. I should've sent him away, or I should've stayed out of it. Because when I tried to calm them, Father got me by the neck again and told me to keep to my place and mind my tongue. And Arthur..." A single tear escaped her lashes and trailed down her cheek, and it was soon followed by others. Thomas suddenly knew where this story tended, and could do nothing but tighten his grip on Clara's hands and listen in mute horror as every suspicion he had about Sir John Gage and Clara's upbringing was proven true.

"He rushed to my defence, crying that Father should let me go and tugging at his jacket," Clara went on dully, chronicling the horrific events in a flat, gloomy tone as tears continued to spill silently down her face. "And Father swung, knocking him away. Arthur flew back and hit his head on the table. He fell, and didn't get up... and there was blood on the floor. Oh God, I thought my father killed my son."

Her face contorted into a rictus of remembered fear and grief and she jerked her hands to her mouth, dragging his hands along as well, pressing them to her lips as she clenched her teary eyes shut. Thomas could feel her sobbing, whispered prayers against his skin, and felt her lips moving against his fingers. The spike of desire the sensation caused was nearly dizzying in its intensity, racing up from his fingers and down his spine, and he had to close his own eyes for a moment as he mastered himself.

This was not the time. Not that he and Clara had a time, per se, but if they had or were ever to have one, this would certainly not be it.

It seemed Clara realised what she was doing at the same moment he did, for as he began to gently extract his hands from hers, she let him go. Her previously white cheeks were now as red as roses, and she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. Thomas pulled a handkerchief out of his sleeve and handed it to her. "I'm sorry, Thomas—I keep crying all over you," she apologised with a tearful, despairing little laugh, using the proffered kerchief to dry her eyes. "And this is... what, the third handkerchief of yours I've taken?"

"With a father like yours, I'm surprised you haven't used every handkerchief I own," Thomas replied quietly. He weighed his next words, and then decided to say them after all. "My sisters cried even more often than you did when we were younger, and Walter our father was alive. I'm used to being wept on by women who deserve better from their own fathers."

Clara sniffled a little. "It isn't even that he hurt me," she whispered, looking down at her lap. "I don't care about that—I'm used to the occasional smack, and it's not as though we've been in company much during the last ten years or so," she said, clenching her hands around his handkerchief. Thomas was glad she wasn't looking at him, since he couldn't restrain his inward fury from showing on his face. Fury which he saw echoed in Clara's as she raised her head and snarled, like a young lioness, "But he hurt my son. My son!"

His supposition that Clara was the quietest angry woman in Christendom continued to be supported by her behaviour, though she was more irate now than he'd ever seen her. Her body was tense like a bowstring and her pretty features were pinched with rage. And though her voice was quiet, it was intense. "I never wanted Arthur to grow up like I did, cowering in fear of a parent. And now my father makes the lie of all my hopes. Well, he might be my father, but I am my own woman now, and I won't have him raise a hand to my child!"

"Did you tell him that?" Thomas inquired. If she had, he'd have to find some way of conveying his admiration and his respect for her bravery. There was nothing so hard to do as stand up after a lifetime of abuse and tell the source of it that you would tolerate no more. When he'd dared to say anything like it to Walter, he'd fled the country almost immediately thereafter.

"Something like," Clara admitted. "I... er. Well. After I realised Arthur had been hurt, that he was bleeding on the floor, I... panicked. I don't even remember everything I said, but I was definitely screaming," she remarked with a laugh that was still more than half a sob. "And then I picked up my child, ran from the house, stole Benedict's horse, and rode for Shoreditch with all speed. I knew we'd be safe here." Her face fell into a scowl. "And yet I am faced with a quandary. I don't want Arthur anywhere near my father... and yet, if I defy him, he's very capable of making a fuss, and that's just what I don't need, with Spencer breathing down my neck. And it is Christmas..." She sighed. "For now, I think I'll avoid the issue and just hide."

"I suspect your son shares your feelings," Thomas commented, relaxing a little inwardly as he guessed that was why Arthur had gone missing. At least he wouldn't have to send his people combing through London for a four-year-old.

He watched a similar realisation dawn on Clara's face. "Oh," she said. She closed her eyes, as if she had a pain in her head. "Yes... yes, I suppose he does."

* * *

Gregory descended the stairs from the upper level of the house, and moved to check the last hiding place in which he thought Arthur Tyrell might've concealed himself. Under the staircase itself was a room which was mostly used for storage, but at the back of the slanting room, at the very bottom of the stairs, easy to overlook and nearly impossible to reach, was a tiny little nook (perhaps originally meant to hold a trunk or a strongbox) into which only a small body could ever squeeze.

Climbing over trunks and boxes and holding his candle up, Gregory clambered towards the back of the room, making sure not to bang his head on the stairs. As he drew nearer to the back of the room and the cranny, he heard some soft sniffling which he guessed was made by the sound of a small boy with a nose all stuffed up from crying. "Master Tyrell?" he called quietly. "Master Tyrell, are you here?" The sniffling nose stopped, and Gregory tried to wedge himself down to where he knew now Arthur was hiding. He couldn't quite fit, though, and eventually just sat down, hunched over, on a box, and set his candle down beside him.

"Will you not come out, Master Tyrell?" Gregory asked. "Your mother is very worried about you." When there was no movement or sound—save that of a snotty-nosed young boy trying to breathe quietly—Gregory sighed. "Arthur, I know you're there. My sisters used to hide in here when we played hide-and-seek. I did too, but I soon grew too big." Still silence. "I hear you had a sister once, too. Constance, was she not? I had two—Anne, and Grace. They were littler than me."

Finally, a tiny little voice came out of the shadows. "Connie was littler than me, too. Then she died."

"So did Anne and Grace," Gregory replied quietly.

"My papa died too," said Arthur's voice. "You still have your papa. I like your papa. He says he'll let me keep my hawk here, if I get one," he added, sounding sad. "I don't think Master Spencer would let me have a hawk." He shifted a little, but still didn't emerge from his hiding spot. "How come everyone dies, Master Gregory?" the boy asked suddenly.

Gregory was surprised to hear such a question from such a young child. "I guess it's just God's will," he replied after a moment of thought.

"That's what Mama says," Arthur grumbled. "But what does it mean?"

"I... think it means that sometimes things happen that we don't understand, but we just have to have faith that whatever happened, happened because God wanted it to, because He has a plan that we can't see," Gregory mused slowly, staring off into the darkness and baffled at the situation. He was sitting under the stairs of his home, discussing philosophy with a four-year-old he was trying to coax out from hiding.

"But it's not fair," complained Arthur.

"Hasn't your mother told you that life isn't fair?" Gregory asked, unsure if the tone of his voice was wry or just bitter.

"Well, it ought to be," the boy grumbled.

"Will you come out, now?" Gregory inquired after Arthur was silent for a long moment. "Your mother must be frantic."

"What's 'frantic' mean?"

"Really, really worried," Gregory replied emphatically. "Will you not come out and go to her?"

"No," Arthur said mulishly. "I'm staying here. Mama said that no one would take me away and no one can hurt me here, in Master Cromwell's house, so I'm going to stay here so no one can take me away. And Mama can stay here too!" he added brightly. "Grandfather hurts her and makes her scared, so she can stay here with Master Cromwell and me and Richard and Alice and Joan and you too."

The worst part was, there was a certain simple, twisted logic in Arthur's argument. And Gregory knew that Lady Clara had actually said these things to her son, though she hadn't probably meant for him to take them so... literally. "But you can't stay under the stairs forever," he tried to coax. "You'll have to eat and move around and use the jakes."

Given the long, silent moment which came after, Gregory imagined Arthur hadn't thought that far ahead. "You can't hawk from under the stairs, either," he added, making his tone of voice idle and casual. "And Christmas is coming. I bet you can't have gifts under the stairs. Pity—I know Alice and Joan have been working on something especially for you. But you'll never get to have it unless you come out."

He heard a huffy sigh, and then a dirty, dusty little boy wriggled out from the dark space in which Gregory knew he'd been hiding. But he still didn't come into the candlelight, or get close enough for Gregory to grab him. "I'll come out," Arthur announced, "if you tell me a story, first."

Well, he could either run and get the boy's mother and let her deal with him, and probably show himself as a feckless young man who couldn't deal with one recalcitrant four-year-old... or he could just tell the lad a story and return in triumph as the one who'd managed to find the missing child, proving himself as competent and successful where even Richard and Ralph had failed. He found he liked the latter option best.

"All right," Gregory consented. "What kind of story?"

* * *

Thomas convinced Clara to leave the search to those who knew the house better than she did, and coaxed her into taking some mulled wine and letting him send for some warm water which she could use to try and get the blood out of her clothing. The colour slowly began to come back into her face as she dabbed at her dress, though she was still visibly fretting about her son, and he attempted to distract her with tales of his time in Italy.

After a while, Ralph Sadler stuck his head into the hall. "Master, my Lady. No sign of your son yet, but your brother has come, Lady Tyrell," he informed them. "Do we want to admit that she's here?" he inquired of Cromwell.

"No sense in hiding it, if he already knows," Thomas replied. Ralph nodded, and vanished back into the vestibule to see to Master Gage. He flicked his eyes to Clara, who was plainly surprised. "How did he know you were here?" he inquired idly, with the slightest edge to his tone. He'd thought they'd agreed to be discreet, and from what he was learning of Benedict Gage, discretion was not among his talents.

"I have no idea," Clara replied honestly, her brow furrowed in confusion. "I really didn't tell him I was here... or that I've been coming here so often, I swear."

"I suppose we'll find out soon enough," Thomas allowed, accepting her assurances and standing to welcome this new, surprise guest into his home.

Benedict entered the hall and his eyes immediately went to Clara; once his gaze landed on her, the tension in his face and his body relaxed. "Thank God," he breathed. Then he turned to Cromwell with an apologetic smile and a small bow. "My apologies for bursting in on you like this, Master Cromwell. I just... er. I was worried about my sister and my nephew."

"Quite understandable," Cromwell allowed genially, giving the younger man a shallow bow in return. "As Lady Tyrell's brother, you are welcome."

"How did you find me, Ben?" Clara asked quietly, and Thomas watched as most of his hard work fell away. She became pale and unhappy again, and he could see the cares piling themselves back onto her back. "How'd you know I was here?"

"I didn't," Benedict admitted, taking the chair Cromwell offered him and pulling his hat off his head. "I've been looking for you for hours. Which was made more difficult given that I had no horse," he added pointedly, giving his sister a bit of a scowl.

"Sorry," Clara apologised with a blush.

"It's fine," Benedict said, waving the apology away. "I found you, anyway."

"Yes, but how?" Clara demanded, and Thomas silently blessed her for asking questions he himself wanted the answers to, but could not voice.

"Don't worry," her brother assured her. "I don't think anyone else would guess—and you definitely don't have to worry about Father showing up on my heels." Clara released a relieved sigh, and Benedict grinned at her. Thomas noted that the siblings had very similar grins. "I just figured, from what I know of where you've been spending most of your time since you came to London, that you'd either be in church, in a bookstore, here, or in Chelsea with the Mores. And if you weren't here, I'd have been bound for Chelsea next. I suppose I should thank you, then, for being here. I wasn't looking forward to riding all the way out there," he finished dryly.

"You're welcome?" Clara replied, sounding uncertain.

"Where's Arthur?" Benedict asked, growing serious. "Is he all right?"

"He's got a very deep cut on his head which I don't doubt will first bruise, and then scar," Clara replied grimly.

"May I see him?"

Clara winced. "Well, he's hiding at the moment," she admitted.

Benedict blinked, a little thrown by that admission. "He's hiding?"

"Yes. An hour or so ago, he excused himself to use the privy and never returned," Clara confessed with a sigh. "Thomas and I have concluded that he is likely hiding somewhere inside the house. Especially since I have... well, I assured Arthur that he would be safe within these walls. I think he took me very much at my word and will probably refuse to leave."

"Like mother, like son, then?" Benedict replied innocently, but with a sly smile lurking in the corner of his lips.

"What are you talking about? I always depart when I have to... I mean, I don't always want to—I really like it here—but I never—" Clara spluttered, cheeks going bright pink.

"I meant, you take people at their word," Benedict interrupted, arching an eyebrow. "Though I'm sure Master Cromwell is pleased that you find his hospitality so satisfying that you never wish to leave his home."

Clara's face was so red at this point Thomas wondered if her hair was going to burst into flames. She glowered at her brother, once again reminding Thomas of an irate kitten, and muttered something too quiet for him to hear. Benedict, however, just grinned wider (Thomas made a mental note that Benedict's ears were keen like Clara's, and wondered if Master Gage might be likewise persuaded to use his ears in the service of the king), and replied teasingly, "Such language, Clare! If Father—"

The minute that word passed Benedict's lips, he stopped short, clearly wishing he'd held his tongue. Clara's face immediately settled into harsh lines, and she crossed her arms across her chest and snarled soundlessly.

Silence descended on the hall for a long moment. Benedict sent a beseeching look at Cromwell, who just raised a brow in return. Clara was Benedict's sister—what did the man want him to do?

Eventually, Benedict spoke. "What are we going to do, Clara?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know what you intend, but I don't mean to bring my son back into Father's company unless I have no other recourse," Clara replied bitterly. "I'll leave him with Agnes—I'll leave him here—before I bring him back into company with his grandfather."

"And if Father raises a fuss?" Benedict inquired, raising a brow. "You know how kindly he takes to any sign of wilfulness from anyone other than himself."

"He can do as he likes," Clara snapped. "But Arthur is my son, and I am a widow of independent means. Father can rant and rave as much as he wants, but I will not be moved. I'm not a little girl anymore, and I won't pretend to be simply to satisfy his pride!"

"He won't like that," Benedict warned.

"Well, I didn't like seeing my son bleeding on the floor!" Clara cried, slamming her hand down onto the tabletop and using its force to propel herself to her feet. Thomas was surprised at her volume—this was the most noise he'd ever heard her make. Judging by the look of shock on her brother's face, he was likewise unaccustomed to hearing such loudness from his quiet sister. "I didn't like seeing my father backhand my child! I swore to myself when I first married Robin that my children would have a better life than I did, and I won't let him make a liar out of me! And if Father doesn't like it, he can bite his tongue and endure, just like we always did!"

Her part said, Clara subsided back into her chair with a black look on her face and her jaw set, practically daring her brother to challenge her. Thomas was extremely impressed with Clara's courage. It seemed Benedict was as well, although his amazement was flavoured with both trepidation and a slight hint of bitterness. Envying his sister her independence, perhaps? Because young Master Gage was still beholden to his father, and would be until his death left Benedict in charge of the Gage holdings? Or was he envying Clara the bravery to stand up to their father?

"Well, good luck to you," was all Benedict said.

Thomas narrowed his eyes slightly. Would he render his sister no assistance? Because that's what his words seemed to imply. He glanced at Clara, wondering if she'd heard the same thing—but no, she was just nodding in acceptance. "Thank you," she said, and her voice was back into the soft mildness of her usual tones. "I just have to suffer through Christmas."

"And then you give him away," Benedict reminded her sourly.

Clara flinched, as though she'd been struck, and Thomas turned a withering look onto Benedict. Did he have to remind her of the impending loss, and make her unhappy once more? "Shall we see if they've found Arthur?" he invited, standing and extending a hand to Clara while pointedly excluding her brother. She accepted his hand with a grateful smile, though she released it once she was upright, and they walked out of the hall. Benedict hurried after, unwilling to be left behind.

"Still no sign of him," Richard informed them as the three adults encountered him, coming down the hall from the counting house. "But then, the house is full of nooks and crannies into which a young boy could crawl. Good evening to you, sir," he added, addressing Benedict before casting a swift, curious look at his uncle, plainly asking who this strange new person was.

"Richard, this is Clara's brother, Master Benedict Gage," Thomas introduced. "Master Gage, this is my nephew Richard, who is a great favourite with your nephew, I believe."

Richard and Benedict exchanged pleasantries, but Thomas wasn't paying attention to them—Clara was frowning a little and had cocked her head to the side. He'd been observing her for long enough now to recognise the expression as the one she wore when she was listening to something. "What is it?" he asked softly, wondering if his voice was low enough that her brother could not hear it, or if they had better have no confidential conversation at all while Benedict Gage was in the house.

"I think it's Gregory," she replied, her brow furrowed, retracing her steps and moving towards the staircase which led up to his privy closet and most of the bedrooms. Thomas kept pace with her, watching out of the corner of his eye as her face shifted from concentration to confusion to amusement and relief as she trailed around to the side of the stairs, coming to the door which led to the storage space underneath. "I think he found Arthur," she whispered to him. "Unless he is telling Merlin stories to himself."

Slightly baffled, Thomas loomed over her, almost but not quite touching, as Clara pushed the small door open and stuck her head into the darkened under-stair. He craned his neck to see into the room himself as Clara trembled with silent laughter next to him... and found himself stifling a measure of laughter himself.

Their wayward sons had been found, both huddled down near the very back of the crawl space, where the stairs grew so low to the floor that only very small bodies could fit into the space between. Gregory was nearly bent double, seated upon a crate with a candle burning beside him, and Arthur was curled up at his feet, leaning against Gregory's knee and staring up at him as the older boy told him a story set in Camelot. They both looked up as Thomas and Clara entered the space; Arthur's face immediately turned a little sheepish, while Gregory just grinned at them, clearly pleased that he'd been the one to locate the missing boy.

"So this is where you've been hiding, Arthur," Clara began, moving towards the boys, stooping as the ceiling sloped downwards. "I was very worried."

"I'm sorry, Mama," Arthur apologised.

"How long have you been in here?" Thomas wondered, addressing his words to Gregory.

"Perhaps a half an hour?" his son replied after a moment of consideration. "Arthur said that I had to tell him a story before he agreed to come out, so I... did."

His son's words made Clara smile, and she cast Gregory an approving look before turning back to her son—who, Thomas noted, did indeed have a bandage tied around his head. "Why did you hide, Arthur?" she asked sternly. "Everyone is looking for you, and we were all very worried."

"You said no one would take me away while I was here," Arthur informed his mother seriously, looking up at her as the candlelight illuminated his young face. "You said no one would hurt me when I'm inside these walls. So we should stay here, Mama, so we can stay together and so no one will hurt us. 'Sides, Gregory lost his Mama, and I lost my Papa, so I told him you can be his mama too, and Master Cromwell can be my papa, and Gregory can be my brother and I can have a hawk." The boy finished his explanation with a firm nod, apparently unaware that he'd rendered both his mother and Master Cromwell completely speechless.

They both stared at the boy in silence for a long moment, then glanced at each other. Even in the darkness, Thomas could see that Clara was blushing furiously, her face a study in sadness, amusement, annoyance, wistfulness... and longing—a fierce, sad, thwarted longing for the picture her son painted. She wanted that future, Thomas knew it—she wanted to stay here, with him, wanted to stay and be Gregory's mother and let him be Arthur's father. And that wanting finally soothed the hurt she'd caused when she proclaimed any such future to be ludicrous. He knew now that Clara had said it because she truly thought it was impossible, and not because she didn't want it (want him). And to be honest, Thomas felt a desire to live out Arthur's fantasy too.

He was briefly, deeply sad that he had to tell himself that it would never, and could never, be anything more than a dream. Because if he thought it was something real and tangible that he could have... Thomas knew himself well enough that he wouldn't stop until it was his, so intensely did he want Arthur Tyrell's simple, perfect vision.

Clara seemed to know it, too—know that however desirable that picture was, it wasn't something she could ever have. "You know we can't do that, Arthur," she said quietly, taking a seat on a trunk and beckoning her son over.

Arthur crawled over, and Thomas winced inwardly at how dirty his suit of clothes would likely be when Clara finally got him out from under the stairs. "Why not?" he asked, throwing himself into his mother's lap. "You said we were safe here. You said no one would take me away when we were at Master Cromwell's house."

Thomas spared a brief moment to be amused at how Arthur pronounced his name. The boy couldn't quite make the 'w' sound, and kept calling him "Master Crommel". Thomas was also deeply touched by the evidence of just how much Clara trusted him—both with herself and her secrets, but also with her son, who was the most precious, important thing in her life.

"And that's true. While we are here, we are safe. But we can't stay here forever," Clara replied slowly, obviously trying to find the best way to explain it to her son. "If we stay here too long... if people know that we come here... it won't be safe anymore, for us, or for Master Cromwell and his family." Arthur was still looking a little confused, and so his mother went on, "Think of Master Cromwell as a blanket."

Thomas felt his ears grow warm, and he shot a flat look at Gregory, who was choking back laughter, clearly amused at his father's expense.

Clara was also amused—Thomas could see the smile tugging at the corners of her lips—but kept speaking earnestly to her child. "When we are hiding under the blanket and no one knows we are there, we are safe, and no one can take you away. But if we spend too much time under the blanket, people realise we are there, and they will tear the blanket away, and we cannot hide under it any longer. Do you understand now?"

Arthur nodded slowly, looking as though someone had just told him Christmas was cancelled. "Yes, Mama," he whispered, curling back up into his mother's lap and sticking his thumb back in his mouth.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Clara murmured, stroking his back slowly. "I know you thought this could be your sanctuary."

"You can still hide here," Gregory spoke up suddenly, moving to go sit on the floor by Clara's feet. He reached up to pat Arthur's forearm gently. "Since nobody knows about the... blanket—" this said with barely-concealed mirth; his son was having too much fun with that metaphor, "you can still hide under it, when you really need to. All of us, we'll protect you when you need to be safe. And you can be my friend, even if we can't be brothers."

"Will you tell me more stories?" Arthur asked, taking his thumb out of his mouth.

"If you want me to," Gregory replied.

Arthur nodded enthusiastically. "Gregory told me a good story, Mama, about King Arthur and Merlin and a giant!" he informed Clara, looking up at her. "May I have another story before we have to go?" This to Gregory.

"Only if Gregory tells it in the hall," Clara said firmly, before Gregory could speak. "I think it is high time we get out from under these stairs. Besides, your Uncle Ben is here, Arthur, and he wants to see you, and make sure you are all right." She smoothed her hand over her son's dark head. "How are you feeling, dear one?"

"I have a little headache," Arthur admitted. "May I have a posset?"

"When we return to Lady Agnes' house," Clara promised. Thomas could see Arthur scowling a little, and hid a smile behind his hand. Clearly, the boy was trying to contrive any and every excuse he could to avoid leaving Austin Friars. It was almost a compliment, in a strange sort of way.

With a bit of shifting and groaning and Clara nearly concussing herself on a low-hanging stair, Thomas, Gregory, Clara, and Arthur emerged out from under the stairs to find Benedict, Richard and Ralph awaiting them. Benedict immediately made a beeline for Clara and Arthur and drew them away to the side, and they fell into a quiet conversation, with Benedict scooping his nephew up into his arms.

"How'd you find him?" Richard was demanded of Gregory.

Thomas' son looked very smug. "I knew where to look," was his reply. "Pity you didn't join us. You missed it when Lady Clara called Father a blanket," Gregory added innocently, but with a wicked twinkle in his blue eyes.

Richard and Ralph both guffawed, and Thomas just rolled his eyes. "You know they all can hear you," he reminded them mildly.

Arthur tottered over, then, having been released by his family, and immediately went up to Gregory and tugged on his doublet. "Story, Gregory?" he asked.

Gregory smirked at Richard, proclaiming obviously _Arthur likes me best_, and then led the boy back into the hall. Richard just rolled his own eyes and followed after, and Thomas wondered, as Clara and Benedict approached him, whether or not his son and his nephew would find themselves in some kind of ridiculous rivalry for Arthur Tyrell's favour. It wouldn't be the first time Gregory and Richard got into fights over something so completely absurd.

"So, Master Blanket..." Benedict began as he approached Thomas and Ralph. However, he was cut off abruptly when Clara punched him in the side.

"Shut up, Ben," she hissed, her face beet-red. "Don't tease."

"You likened the King's secretary to a blanket, Clare," Benedict chuckled breathlessly, rubbing at his ribs. "That deserves teasing. Look, this young gentleman agrees with me," referring to Ralph, who was indeed smirking and sniggering most heartily. "It's hilarious," Clara's brother insisted. Then he winced. "God's blood, Clare, that hurt!" he complained.

Clara grinned proudly. "Good," she replied. "You deserved it."

Benedict just rolled his eyes and entered the hall, tossing a mocking sneer at his sister as he went.

"Why, Clara," Thomas teased softly. "Using my lessons to bedevil your brother? I think I am almost proud of you."

Clara's shoulders quivered and she pressed her fingers to her lips, as if holding in her laughter. "Thank you, Thomas," she replied, once she was mistress of herself. And when she turned to look at him, she was smiling at him in such a way that it was almost like a caress. "Really, thank you," she added earnestly. "Oh Thomas, I don't know what I'd be doing without you."

And he could not do anything else but smile back at her. "I think you underestimate yourself, but you are of course very welcome," he replied, wanting to reach out to her, but knowing he could not. Not with her brother in the house, watching and listening... and not with his heart feeling so full of Clara that he could not be entirely certain just how he would find himself reaching out, or whether he'd be able to let her go once he did. "And I am honoured to be your blanket."

"Oh, don't you start," Clara groaned, burying her face in her hands for a moment. "I was trying to explain things to Arthur—I'd like to see you do any better."

"I didn't say anything," Thomas pointed out innocently. He paused for a moment, then decided to say it anyway, with just the right amount of suggestiveness: "But you are of course allowed to hide under me any time you please."

Clara, cheeks flaming red, punched him.

* * *

**A/N part deux:** And there's part two. I don't really like this chapter very much. I'm totally not very happy with it, but I'm not sure why, either. Meh. The next few chapters are going to be much more fun, as Clara gets out of this limbo she's in where she both has and doesn't have her son. Arthur actually gets handed off next chapter, and Clara takes her first definitely steps towards her future. Woo!

_Historical notes_: So, having said the last chapter that social taboos were a big thing, I have to add that class spheres were permeable. Usually through use of lots o' money. Wealthy merchants could and did marry into the lower rungs of the gentry, buy land, and thus become gentry themselves. Anne Boleyn's ancestors did, after all. However, Cromwell is kind of only starting the climb, so to speak, and it would still be a little... gutsy, I guess, for him to marry that high so soon.

Seriously, please review? I think people are reading this, but I don't know because only my homies ever review. Sad. :(


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Moving onward! I had waited a long time to write this chapter... which might be why it got so long. Again. Gah.

Sorry it took so long, too—my work schedule went nuts again because the two of the three new people we hired on to make sure the schedules didn't go nuts quit within weeks and the third just had a baby and went on maternity leave, which left us all back at square one, with a schedule gone nuts. Also, I've started getting tension headaches whenever I have to work. And then I nearly fell off a ladder and while clinging to the shelves to make sure I didn't fall and break my leg I nearly tore a couple of fingernails off, which made typing kinda painful for a couple days... so yeah. There were lots of things which contributed to the delay. But the chapter is here now, so enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 10:**

_11 January, 1529_

Even when she was old and grey, Clara would still remember Christmas 1528 as one of the worst of her entire life.

Not only was the entire holiday uncomfortable, due to the people she was spending it with and their various problems, but Clara felt the whole time as though she was in limbo, and just... waiting. Waiting to give her son away. Waiting to be the lady of her own home, again—or waiting to hear otherwise. Waiting for a change that didn't seem to be coming.

Despite her fierce words, she couldn't exactly avoid her father for the latter half of December; however, she held fast to her resolve to make it clear to her father that she would tolerate no violence against her son, first by keeping Arthur out of his presence, and then informing her father outright when he demanded to see his grandson. Which was why she was sporting another split lip as the Gage family went to mass on the 25th, and why her neck and arms were absolutely mottled with bruises by the ninth day of Christmas. Nothing changed—her father would not acknowledge that she was a woman in her own right who could make her own choices, and Clara refused to surrender and pretend the events in December hadn't happened. Still, Arthur made it through the holiday season without any further injuries, which made it all worth it, to Clara's mind.

Even if she and her father still weren't speaking when Sir John returned to Norfolk.

In addition to her deteriorating relationship with her cantankerous father, Clara also had to deal with the rest of her family and friends, who seemed to be uniformly in foul moods. Benedict was sullen the whole holiday through, clearly unhappy with his impending marriage. Arthur was alternatively clingy and miserable or surly and belligerent; Clara had to keep a sharp eye on him to ensure he minded his tongue around his volatile grandfather. Lord Sedley was often home from court, and they had to endure his company; Agnes grew sharper and more brittle towards everyone save Benedict, who walked around with a dazed look in his green eyes. Marion was morose about being excluded from the Gage family get-togethers and about Arthur's impending departure and only managed smiles for Clara and Arthur. Clara's only escape was Austin Friars, where everyone seemed appropriately merry... and even that was tainted.

Well no, perhaps "tainted" was not the right word. But she couldn't forget that many inhabitants of the house thought she and Thomas were going to get married. Nor could she forget all the things she'd said when those assumptions were revealed. If only there'd been someone around to shove something into her mouth before she'd opened it! Because she knew Thomas had been hurt by her words. He hadn't said anything, but she could tell; his face had been more wooden and distant than usual, and he'd been a little snippy with her for a few days afterwards. Justly so, perhaps; she'd all but said that marrying into his family was ridiculous and a degradation. She'd apologised, of course, and Thomas didn't seem to hold it against her... but Clara couldn't stop herself from thinking about it whenever she saw him, and wishing she'd just held her tongue.

Even if there was a small, shameful part of her that almost wanted to marry him, that wanted to forget Robin and her father and even her son and just throw down her burdens and let Thomas care for her. Clara couldn't forget that, either.

Still, lingering awkwardness aside, Thomas Cromwell and his family had been one of the brightest spots of an otherwise extremely miserable Christmas. At least they were merry, which was more than could be said for her own family (even though Thomas' face got steadily more grim the more bruises she sported. She made a mental note never to introduce the two men. If Thomas and her father were in company, only one would walk away alive... and filial loyalty aside, Clara would put her money on Thomas).

And then it was over. Another Christmas had passed, 1529 had been rung in, Clara had a handful of new books to place into her library, Sir John Gage went home (much to everyone's relief), and it was suddenly time for Clara to bring her son to Berkshire, and hand over that which she loved best in all the world to the man she hated most. Was it any wonder that, as she was jolted along the roads to Peasemore, she preferred to dwell on even an uncomfortable Christmas in lieu of an even more painful future?

Arthur, curled up under the furs next to her, was likewise silent, clutching the stuffed toy hawk which Alice Wellyfed and Joan Williamson had made for him. He had been crying on and off for the entire journey. As had Marion, sitting on the other side of the carriage, who had volunteered to accompany them to Berkshire. Aside from the occasional sniffle or choked sob, no one made any noise at all.

How had it come to this?

The carriage rolled to a stop outside Peasemore House, the home of George Spencer, late that afternoon. And for a long moment, no one moved or spoke or made any acknowledgement that this was it.

"Well," Clara said, breaking the silence. "Here we..." But then a huge lump rose up in her throat and choked her.

"Mama?" Arthur whispered, looking up at her, his young face pale and pinched with both cold and unhappiness. "Why can't I stay?"

Marion sobbed suddenly, and buried her face in her hands; Clara could feel a sob of her own rising in her chest, but fought it down. Arthur needed her to be strong. If she collapsed into tears, so would he. Instead, she held him tightly in her arms and kissed the top of his head. "I'm sorry, darling. But you have to go," she murmured into his hair.

Then, before she could weep or storm or order the driver to turn back towards London, Clara opened the door and lunged out of the carriage, letting the cold air sting her eyes and excuse the tears gathering therein. She stared for a moment at the building where her son would grow up without her, and found it to be a modest stone manor house, perhaps a little run-down, but otherwise not a place she would be ashamed to leave her child.

That is, if it weren't for the chief inhabitant.

Clara turned back, and helped Arthur out of the carriage. He immediately ducked under her cloak and clung to her skirts. Marion clambered out last, and they stood for a moment before Peasemore House, waiting.

_Your move, Spencer_, Clara thought sourly, glaring at the house. If he was waiting for her to approach the door and knock like a petitioner, he was going to be disappointed. She didn't want to be here, after all, and didn't want to leave her child behind. And if Spencer kept them waiting too much longer, she was going to climb back in the carriage, drive into town, and take rooms at the Inn there. Let him approach her.

"Is he not home?" Marion asked after a moment, huddled inside her furs.

"Oh, he's home," Clara replied grimly. "Look, you can see the chimneys smoking. And I can hear them inside."

"Then why does he not come out?" she wondered, teeth chattering.

Clara opened her mouth, then shut it, deciding that it would not be tactful to reply, _we are involved in a pissing contest; if he comes out, he loses, and if I go knock, I lose_. Arthur had shown himself willing to take her words extremely literally, and the last thing she needed was for him to ask questions about her metaphors. Instead, she merely said snidely, not bothering to lower her voice, "Poor manners, I don't doubt."

After nearly ten minutes, when they were all shivering, Clara finally lost patience. "Right, my loves, back into the carriage," she announced. "We'll go back to the village and take lodgings there. Master Spencer can come find us if he pleases."

But before they could drive off, the front door flew open, and George Spencer himself came storming out. "Hold!" he shouted, racing over to the carriage. "What are you playing at?" he demanded, throwing open the door.

"Why, you are home after all!" Clara remarked acidly, glaring at him from her seat and keeping a firm hold on her son, who was pressed against her side and clutching at her cloak. "When you refused to come out to greet us, I thought you were absent, and we intended to take lodgings in the village and await your return."

Spencer sneered at her, and Clara smirked inwardly—chalk one up for her! "Well, you were quite mistaken, madam," he spat. "I am very much at home... and very eager to meet my new ward," he added poisonously.

Clara flinched. _Chalk one up for him as well_, she thought.

Now that Spencer wasn't playing at being absent in an effort to make her come to him, things moved quickly. Too quickly. His servants swiftly unloaded the carriage of Arthur's belongings and carried them into the house, and he himself brought Clara, Marion, and Arthur into the hall—though more because they refused to be left behind than any courtesy on his part.

The inside of the house was much like the outside: modest and slightly worn, and nowhere near as fine as Ardley... but at least it was clean, Clara thought scornfully. And when they all finally entered the hall, with a small fire burning in the hearth, a tiny, pretty blonde woman in a plain woollen gown, trailed by two blonde girls in equally plain garb, stood from their seats near it and came forth to meet them.

"I thought I told you to go upstairs?" Spencer demanded, and Clara wondered who she was. A housekeeper, perhaps, who had been sent to prepare Arthur's room? She'd be interested in seeing for herself the chambers in which her son would dwell.

"Can we not meet the young lad, and his mother?" the woman asked meekly. "Master Tyrell... Arthur... is to be part of the family, after all."

"If you must," Spencer agreed churlishly. "Clara, my wife Bess and our girls. Bess, that's Arthur, his mother, and his aunt."

Clara was astounded. This was Spencer's wife? He dressed himself in the finest silk and velvets, and kept his wife and daughters in plain wool? The two little girls were peering out from behind Mistress Spencer; both were pretty little things, and one looked to be about Arthur's age. Clara wondered, measuring them up with a jaundiced eye, which one Spencer intended for her son.

"Good day to you, Lady Tyrell," Bess Spencer offered kindly, and Clara was slightly soothed by her gentleness. At least one person in the house would be good to her son, although she wondered why such a seemingly pleasant woman as this Bess married such a lout as George Spencer. Had she been deceived, or—like so many women—ordered by her father? "These are my daughters, Mary and Jane," Bess went on. The girls, without speaking, scuttled forward and curtseyed to her. And then Mary, the elder (Clara guessed she was about eight), tried to crane her neck to see Arthur, and gave him a friendly smile when he peeked out to see. Arthur didn't respond, and just ducked back behind his mother. "We are very glad to meet you, and hope that your son will be happy here."

There wasn't anything Clara could think to say in return—at least, nothing polite—and she found herself in the unique position of being grateful to Spencer when he spoke up and negated her own need to find words. "No doubt everything will be fine. And if that's all, Clara, you can say goodbye to your boy and be on your way."

Clara could hear Marion's appalled intake of breath behind her—were they not to be offered a warm drink or a bed for the night?—and even Bess Spencer seemed aghast at her husband's rudeness. "George!" Clara heard Bess whisper to Spencer. "We should at least offer them lodgings for the night—she is the mother of your ward!"

"If that woman had her way, her son never would've set foot in this house," Spencer snarled back. "As it is, we can blame her for the course of extreme economy we'll have to take for the next couple of years."

Clara had to forcibly bite her tongue to keep from retorting that perhaps if Spencer lived a little less extravagantly and gambled a little less, he wouldn't have as many problems with his finances. Instead, she just gave him a withering look she'd learnt off Cromwell as Spencer turned back to her, ignoring his wife, and snapped at Arthur, "Say goodbye to your mother, boy."

Arthur whimpered and clutched at Clara's skirts, and she knelt to take him in her arms. "Be brave, my dearest one," she whispered to him. "And remember that no matter where you go, you are my son, and I love you. I will come visit you in a little while, I promise."

"Don't go, Mama, don't go," Arthur begged.

Clara pressed a kiss to his head. "I have to, sweetheart. Now say goodbye to Aunt Marion?"

Marion embraced Arthur tightly, looking as though she was about to cry, and then let go. Arthur immediately ran back to Clara, and clung to her, shaking and sniffling. Clara clung back, closing her eyes and breathing in her son, trying to press everything about him in her memory—the fragility of his body, the softness of his skin, the scent of hay and lavender and child. God, this was like tearing her own heart out of her chest.

Spencer finally lost patience with the farewells, and came up behind her, grabbing Arthur's arm and pulling him out of his mother's embrace. "Enough weeping, lad," he addressed Arthur sternly. "You've clearly been spending too much time with women. I promise, I'll have you acting more like a man." That, however, was addressed to Clara. He smirked meanly at her. "Farewell, Clara. I promise, I'll take good care of your son."

And with that, he dragged Arthur to the back of the hall and through a doorway that led elsewhere, out of view. The last sight Clara had of her son was Arthur's pale, teary face looking desperately, beseechingly back at her as George Spencer towed him away.

Bess gave her a sympathetic look as she shooed her daughters after. "I'm sorry for my husband, Lady Tyrell," she apologised quietly. "But I'll be good to your son, I promise. God be with you on your way back to London."

Clara just nodded, unable to speak, knowing that if she tried she'd begin to cry. There was nothing else she could do but turn around and go back. So that was what she and Marion did. They exited the house, and after Clara gave orders for the driver to return to the city, climbed back into the carriage. Marion sat next to Clara, and they both huddled up under the furs together as the conveyance began to move, pressed against each other from shoulders to knees.

Eventually, Marion's arm came out and wrapped around Clara's shoulders, pulling her down to lean against the taller woman. Clara let her head fall to rest on Marion's shoulder, and, wrapped in her sister's arms and warmed by her affection, began to cry.

* * *

_12 January, 1529_

Thomas honestly hadn't expected to see Clara at all this week; he knew she'd left Monday to deliver her son to Berkshire, and estimated that she'd be exhausted on Tuesday and still depressed and miserable on Thursday. He told his nieces that they would likely have no lessons with Lady Clara until next week, and resigned himself to not being in company with her until Sunday, if then.

So he was very surprised to find her in the hall talking quietly with Alice and Joan that Tuesday night.

"Clara, I thought you were in Berkshire," Thomas remarked after greeting his son.

"I was," Clara replied, scowling. "Spencer refused to give us lodgings for the night. Ill-mannered mammet... he took my son and threw me out on my ear! In December! And having gone all that way! Marion and I could do nothing but turn around and come back." She crossed her arms across her chest frowned fiercely down at the floor, muttering something too low for him to hear, but which was probably impolite, given the wide-eyed, shocked look that Joan, who was closest, turned on her after.

Odd; Thomas had expected her to be teary and upset and perhaps in need of comfort (and he had been, he admitted to himself, looking forward to giving it to her). Instead, Clara was seething with badly concealed anger and looking about as embraceable as a hedgehog. Thomas glanced at Joan, who just blinked at him, then at Alice, who smiled uncertainly, and then back to Clara, who was visibly trying to regain her composure.

Finally, she blew out a quiet breath and looked back up at him. And while she looked less likely to try and punch a hole through a wall, her dark eyes were still bright with fury. "Whenever you have a moment, Thomas, I'd like to speak with you on a matter of some importance," she said, and Thomas could barely tell she was clenching her teeth.

"I have a moment now, if you like," Thomas invited, gesturing her to accompany him upstairs. And with a quick farewell to the other occupants of the hall, she quickly hurried to precede him upstairs, skimming across the floors like a mist over the water, her movements as always economical and contained, if perhaps a bit shorter and more abrupt than usual, given her foul temper at the moment. Still, he enjoyed watching her walk, especially from the back—that was why he usually let her go before him.

As usual, he ushered her into his privy closet, and as usual, she made a beeline for the bookshelves. However, she was drawn up short as she passed his desk and noticed the new adornments thereon. She turned to look at him, her eyes wide with surprise, and Thomas just smiled back at her. "They are good likenesses," he said—and it was true. Gregory's miniature especially was a particularly accurate sketch, with his son's face warm and smiling a little as he looked out of the parchment. That one was his favourite; he so seldom saw that expression on his child's face nowadays that it was a pleasure to have it captured so he could see it whenever he wanted—especially since he'd bid farewell to his son a couple days ago, when Gregory returned to Cambridge for the Lent term. He wondered what Clara had done to get that expression onto Gregory's face, and whether she might share her methods. "Thank you again for the gift."

Clara blushed, then, and for a moment the rage in her slender body was banked. "You are very welcome," she replied, looking up at him from under her lashes in a shyly flirtatious look Thomas didn't think she even knew she was giving him, but which nonetheless warmed his heart... and another organ rather further south in his body.

His desire for this woman was beginning to get out of control.

Thomas took refuge in business matters, and turned away to file the day's papers while Clara honed in on the newest book on his shelves—one which had been sent to him by a friend from Venice, tooled in deep green leather and gilt with gold. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her slide it off the shelves and run her hands reverently over the cover before cradling it carefully in the crook of her arm and opening to the front page.

"_Summa de Arithmetica_, by Brother Luca Pacioli," Thomas supplied, watching her hands intently. "A Christmas gift from some friends in Venice."

Clara barely glanced at him, wholly absorbed by the book. "It's beautiful," she murmured, wafting over to sit in what Thomas was coming to think of as her chair and quietly settling in. So he finished filing his papers and she sat and read silently, and for a moment they were both peaceful and content in the other's presence.

Once he was finished with the papers, Thomas went and took his usual seat behind his desk, watching as Clara closed the book around a finger to hold her place before looking up at him. She had been calmed slightly, but there was still a low-burning anger underneath, and even as he watched it flared up in her eyes. "What's on your mind, Clara?" he asked.

"I need your help... again," she admitted. "Thomas, you said you could get me a place at court? Well, I... I want to go. And I want you to teach me how to be as successful as I can—I need to make powerful friends. I want to teach that ill-natured whoreson as harsh a lesson I can!" she growled. Thomas assumed the whoreson in question was George Spencer; he seemed to be the only person who could make Clara rage like that. "I want to show him he can't just walk over me and treat me—or my son!—like that... or that if he does, I can do him equal displeasure elsewhere and utterly destroy his ambitions. He wants to climb higher, and be a rich gentleman? Well, he'll climb no higher through my son unless he treats the both of us better," she vowed.

In that moment, she was a lioness, and Thomas marvelled at the strength of will concealed behind the outward impression of a meek, timid gentlewoman. She had them all fooled, didn't she? People looked at Clara and thought she was a mouse, when truly she was anything but—and it wasn't even a conscious concealment. If only he could convince her to spy for him! The more he learned about her, the more convinced he became that she could be a perfect agent. Every natural inclination was there, and wanted only a little refining.

The moment passed, and Clara put away the lion and shrank back down to a mere kitten; he'd think he'd imagined the sudden fierceness were it not for the fact that he knew her too well. Even as Clara met his eyes and bit her lip nervously for a moment, Thomas knew her meekness was only paper-thin. "But I need... I don't know how to be a courtier. Can you teach me? I put myself wholly in your hands," she finished, her eyes silently entreating him to consent.

For a moment, it felt as though his heart had stopped. And immediately after, it began pounding. How had she... how did Clara always manage to give him exactly what he wanted? He wanted her as his agent at court, and here she was, giving herself over with that perfect trust which he'd found so astonishing. How had she known? Had she known? Or was it as he'd mused weeks before, and Clara truly was the answer to his prayers?

He'd spent too long marvelling, though, and Clara was looking nervous and desperate. "I don't know if there's anything you want from me, but in return... Thomas, help me, and anything I have is yours," she added earnestly, with the slightest hint of pleading.

_Now __that__ is a dangerous offer_, Thomas thought, as his mind went immediately to several things he wanted from Clara. He wanted her as his ears around court. He wanted her to keep trusting him as she did, and looking at him as though he was the best and most important man in her life. He wanted her here, in his home, all the time. He wanted her sprawled naked across his sheets, her dark hair spilling over his pillows and her slender limbs twined around his, wanted her breathless and crying out his name in passion, wanted her soft, sweaty, and sated by his side after—hell, he wanted her bent over his desk right now.

Some of these things were mutually exclusive, though. The way things were right now, Thomas didn't think for a moment that Clara would be willing to go to bed with him for anything. Furthermore, if he made such a request, he would destroy that innocent trust she had for him, and likely make any further dealings extremely awkward. However, he could get her as his spy—_anything I have is yours_.

Thomas smiled widely at her, and watched as Clara's shoulders simultaneously relaxed while her face flooded with colour. "Sometimes, Clara, I think you're the very answer to my prayers," he commented, enjoying the bashful pleasure he could see on her face even as she ducked her head. "I can and will help you..." he trailed off.

"And in return?" Clara asked tentatively.

"I want you to be my ears around court," Thomas said plainly.

Clara processed this information with a little frown on her face. "Like... a spy?" Her tone of voice was dubious.

"After a fashion," Thomas shrugged, unwilling to give her an unqualified 'yes' for fear of an outright rejection. The honest Clara would have to be coaxed a little into such a dishonest profession. "Anything you overhear in regards to certain subjects, bring to me, and I will bring it to Cardinal Wolsey or the King, as needed. Do you know any Spanish?" Clara shook her head. "I'll have to teach you some."

"You want me to spy on the Queen?" she asked, horrified.

"The Queen, the Imperial Ambassador, the Papal Legate, the Queen's ladies... anyone and everyone who might stand in the way of the King's achievement of his lawful desires," Thomas replied frankly. Clara still looked a little unsure, so he stood and moved to the other chair before his desk, lowering his voice and leaning in close, as though sharing a confidence. "It really isn't much different from your usual gossip-mongering, you know," he pointed out coaxingly. "Other than the rank of the people involved and the subject of the gossip itself, this is no different than telling me you heard that John Wisdom was hauled up before the College of Physicians again. That, and picture how much good you could do, how you could turn a sin into a virtue! Think on it, Clara! Should the King get his annulment and marry Lady Anne, imagine what that would mean for those of our faith! Or better—his Majesty threatens already to break with Rome if the Pope will not rule in his favour. Should he do so..."

Thomas paused significantly, and then spoke on, letting a shade more intensity enter his voice. "Imagine an England where you don't need to fear burnings or arrests, where you can read the scriptures in English and share them with everyone. An England free of superstition and Popish excesses and corrupt clergy... and it is within our grasp, if only we can get Anne Boleyn onto the throne, through whatever means." He reached out and took Clara's hands in his, gripping them tightly as he met her eyes with his own and continued to weave the possibility of a golden future around her, luring her in closer and closer. "The King will have what he wants, Clara, and he will be generous to those who assisted him in getting it—as too will Lady Anne. And if that includes you... you might even be able to get your son back, especially if you are proved to have worked actively for her cause, as opposed to Spencer, who languished in the country," he added persuasively, dangling that which he knew she wanted most before her eyes. "But if we are to assist the King, we must have information. And your ears..."

Thomas reached up to stroke his fingers along the delicate shell of her ear, and Clara shivered under his touch, her dark eyes growing even darker as they stared into his, her pupils blown with what looked like some rather intense desire. Hopefully it would befuddle her enough that she wouldn't pick too hard at his arguments, though he also felt a thrill of masculine pride at being able to put that look in a woman's eye, at being able to so affect a lady who had previously dismissed a deeper connection with him as ludicrous. "Your ears are the keenest I have ever encountered. Were you to use them in the service of his Majesty..."

Clara bit meditatively on her lower lip, lowering her eyes for a moment. Thomas kept his hold on her hands and just waited; he knew her well enough to realise that she was won, in any case. And sure enough, after mere seconds she lifted her head and met his gaze. Her eyes were resolute, and she nodded firmly. "All right," she acquiesced, and Thomas felt an inward surge of triumph. "All right, I'll do it, God help me."

He frowned a little at that—it wasn't as though she'd just made a deal with the devil. Clara caught his look and blushed. "I just meant that... well, what if someone finds out?" she explained. "Or asks me what I'm doing? What do I say? You know I've no talent for lying."

"That brings me to what will likely be our first series of lessons," Thomas replied, still keeping a hold of her hands. "You will need to learn to arrange your face, and how to answer dangerous questions."

"I will tell the truth, no matter what," Clara replied, sounding slightly offended. But she made no move to remove herself from his grasp, which he took as a good sign.

"I'm not suggesting that you lie," Thomas assured her. _Especially as you've no aptitude for it_, he added inwardly. "I would never ask you to go against your conscience." _Unless I could persuade you otherwise_. "But you can give answers that are technically true while still concealing that which you do not wish known." Clara tilted her head curiously, and he elaborated, "For example, say you are asked where you have been this evening. What would be your reply?"

Clara looked suddenly uncomfortable. "I would... er. Do I have to answer?" she asked.

"Yes," Thomas replied wryly. "But you can tell the truth without telling the whole truth. Say you were visiting a friend, but don't elaborate on which friend. Or stop by a church on your way home and then say you were in church—it's still the truth, but it isn't the whole truth."

"Like when you told me that you weren't going to help me with my case, just so I could tell people you weren't when you really were," Clara realised suddenly, lighting up with comprehension.

"Precisely," Thomas returned proudly. "Reply with a truth to your inquiries, of course, but not the truth, if you can possibly manage it." Clara's face was still creased with an expression of trepidation, though, and she was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of twisting the truth at all. "If you don't think you can manage to hide these things, Clara, I don't think you should go to court at all," he remarked quietly, trying to throw out a challenge for her without making it plain that he was doing so. "You will be more of a liability to the cause than an asset, in that case, and likely do your son more harm than good. Especially since a place at court will naturally throw you into some contact with Lord Rochford. And if you say the wrong thing at the wrong moment, or tell too much truth, you will give Spencer the ammunition he needs to take your son from you."

The anxiousness immediately bled away from her pretty face to be replaced by a fierce determination. "No," she said, shaking her head. "No, I'll learn—I promise I'll learn." Her hands shifted in his, and she gripped his hands in turn; he held her, but she was holding onto him as well. "This is all for my son," she added quietly, almost to herself. "Besides, it will be a good skill for me to learn. Especially as I am a heretic, and a good friend to Thomas More."

Thomas Cromwell clenched his jaw momentarily at the mention of Thomas More, then relaxed as he realised she was unconsciously parroting something he'd said to her at the very beginning of their acquaintance. And he marvelled inwardly that Clara could and would conform herself to his opinions. He hardly needed to persuade her at all—she would do most of it herself, once he demonstrated the rationale of his position and threw out an oblique challenge. Of course, he was still vexed that Thomas More entered into her thought processes at all, and annoyed that she called him a "dear friend", but comforted himself with the knowledge that she wasn't going to Thomas More for help, but to Thomas Cromwell. It wasn't for Thomas More that her cheeks flushed and her breath quickened, either.

"Just so," was all he said. "I will speak with Cardinal Wolsey as soon as can be about finding you a place. Likewise, speak with your brother about the same—I know, though I don't think he does yet, that he is to be appointed to a position in the King's household." In fact, Cromwell had spoken in the favour of Benedict Gage's appointment as a Groom of the Chamber due to his desire to get the man's sister a position at court as well.

"Oh, is he?" Clara asked, smiling brightly. "That will please him."

_And you as well_, Thomas thought, watching her shine with pleasure for her brother's good fortune. _And as it gets you closer to court, and will assist you with finding lodgings therein, it pleases me also_. "Meanwhile," he went on, "I want to start teaching you Spanish; it will be a useful language to know in the Queen's household, especially as I believe Her Majesty discusses most of her sensitive information with the ambassador in that tongue. We will have to contrive a way to meet a little more often, and even more discreetly than we do now—we may want to revive Igraine Ardley," he added with a sly grin. Clara's answering smile was a little bashful and a little proud. "I would like you, this evening when you return home, to think of answers you will be comfortable with giving in response to questions we do not want asked, especially about me and your association with my household."

They spent the rest of the evening hashing out a schedule, which included the occasional meeting at court, to accustom Clara to its layout and the people therein. Two new aliases were concocted to be used whenever necessary, and Clara left Austin Friars with several Spanish pronouns and a couple of verbs to memorise.

Thomas watched her leave later that night, muttering verb conjugations to herself, with a broad smile on his face. Everything was moving now in his favour. It was only a matter of time until Lady Tyrell went to court, and sidled through the galleries of Whitehall listening for him, as his spy.

* * *

_15 January, 1529_

"We must teach you to arrange your face," Thomas announced a few days later. She had come to Shoreditch tonight only to see him, sneaking in the back swathed in a black cloak. To the best of his knowledge, no one save Ralph was aware that she was in the house at all.

"Arrange my face?" Clara repeated curiously. "How so?"

"Everything you feel shows on your face," Thomas explained. _And while __I__ enjoy it_... "That is a dangerous trait at court. Thus, you need to choose an expression to wear, and keep it on your face at almost all times."

Clara tilted her head and regarded him thoughtfully. "Is that why you're always scowling?"

Thomas felt his eyebrows drawing together into a scowl, and instead arranged his face into a slightly petulant moue. "I'm not always scowling," he protested mildly.

She mimicked his default court expression: eyebrows drawn together, mouth straight, features stony and controlled. However, she could only hold it for a moment or so—and then very poorly, with the corners of her lips twitching with mirth—before her teasing smile burst forth. "That's not a scowl?" she challenged archly. Thomas just gave her a flat look, and her smile brightened further. "See, there it is," she grinned, reaching out to stroke the furrow between his brows with a slender finger.

He rolled his eyes and batted at her hand, hiding the shiver of desire that raced down his spine the moment her skin touched his, and inwardly pleased that she had initiated a contact. That might have been the first time she had decided to touch him without having been touched first. "It's meant to be thoughtful," he informed her haughtily, watching with interest the way her shoulders quivered with silent laughter, and how it affected other parts of her anatomy, before raising his eyes back northwards to meet her own. "But no matter what the expression, you have to arrange your face at court," he reiterated, shaking a finger at her before reaching out to touch the smile at the corner of her mouth. Under his touch, her skin pinked, and Thomas could feel the quickness of her breath against his hand and see the confused attraction rising in her face before he drew back and folded his hands back in his lap. He went on, as though that little interlude had never happened, "And I might add that I seldom scowl here, at home."

"But you do scowl," Clara pointed out, her baffled, nervous desire giving way to smugness at having won the argument, childish as it was.

"Is your brother still sleeping with Lady Agnes?" Thomas demanded suddenly. A series of emotions chased themselves across Clara's face: first surprise, then annoyance, followed by a wry confirmation. "See, that there is what arranging your face is supposed to prevent," he said, pointing at her. "You didn't say a word, and yet I now know that you are aware of such an affair—and indeed, that there is such an affair ongoing. Imagine if Lord Sedley had asked you that question."

Clara winced, and Thomas knew his point was made. "I don't know if I can... er," she said, and he could see her fumbling inwardly for the correct term.

"Chose an expression that sits comfortably on your face," he advised. "And practise holding it there, no matter what is said to you."

He gave her a few moments to cycle through a series of expressions before she chose one—a kindly, expectant look with just the hint of a smile playing around her lips. Thomas thought it would serve her well, if she could hold it; it was the kind of expression which invited confidences, which said _trust me, I mean you no harm_. "Good," he said, voicing his approval. "Now see if you can't hold it." He gave her a few moments, and then asked, "So, what think you of Master George Spencer?"

"I don't like him," Clara replied honestly, keeping her face arranged in that pleasant look, even as the skin around her eyes tightened and a spark of anger lit in their dark depths.

Thomas grimaced. This was going to be difficult.

* * *

_20 January, 1529_

"_El Emperador_."

"The King of England?"

"_El Rey de Inglaterra_."

"The Pope?"

"_El Papa_."

"Good. Now, conjugate _hacer_, present tense."

"_Hago, haces, hace, hacemos, hacéis, hacen_."

"And what does it mean?"

"To do."

"Well done. Now translate, 'the emperor wants to make war...'"

* * *

_24 January, 1529_

"...your feelings about the King's Great Matter?" Thomas inquired, as though he were a courtier at Whitehall.

Clara kept that sweet expression on her face. "I am a mere woman, my Lord," she replied, casting her gaze modestly downward—a clever ploy, which would keep her feelings from being immediately discerned from her eyes. He'd warned her about that last week. Though she was getting better at arranging her face, her feelings still shone clear in her eyes. "I trust His Majesty to know what he is about."

Thomas broke character for a brief moment to smile at her in admiration. Clara really was getting very good at that—at telling some of the truth, but not all of the truth, and tailoring it to her hypothetical audience so as not to outright offend anyone. He knew that Clara didn't think she was a mere anything, and that she had a firm opinion about the Great Matter (namely, that His Majesty was behaving rather badly towards poor Queen Katherine and setting a poor precedent for marriage). However, she did trust the King to know what he was doing, and that was the truth she told to the theoretical courtier.

She smiled back briefly, and then they both returned to their roles. Thomas went on, putting another thorny question to her: "Have you met the Lady Anne Boleyn? How do you find her?"

Clara's expression didn't change. "I have not had the privilege of meeting the lady," she replied candidly, and left it at that. Prudent.

Now came the truly dangerous part. "I understand you have some small acquaintance with Lord Rochford, the Lady's father?" he said.

"Very small," Clara demurred, shrugging a little. However, as she did so, her shoulders were tense. "He dresses very well."

He couldn't withhold an amused snort. "Is that all you can say about the man, Clara?" he asked.

"Well, it's true and it's benign—what else should I say?" she challenged grumpily, letting her frail courtier's mask collapse. "That he's as cold as the stones outside and I found him utterly terrifying?"

"No, no, it's fine," Thomas assured her. "It's quite a good answer, actually. Complimentary, but cool. It will satisfy everyone."

Clara beamed at his praise, sparkling like the diamonds he'd seen Lady Anne wearing during Twelfth Night, and Thomas felt his own mouth curving up into an answering smile as he basked in the heat of her happiness. When she shone for him like that, or when she gazed at him a moment too longer before looking away with a blush, or when she stared at him and bit her lip when she didn't think he was watching, or when her breath quickened and her body fidgeted when he stood close... whenever she was unable to hide her attraction to him, no matter how it obviously confused or unnerved her, it felt as though something inside him was stirring and waking after a long winter—and not just in his breeches.

Thomas had always been honest with himself about his looks and manner, which he had always brutally assessed as average. He was not the most handsome man in England, nor the most charming. Most women nowadays let their eyes slide over him as though he were part of the scenery, or they looked at him as some sort of abacus with arms. Walter, his father, had dismissed him as an ugly toad of a boy; his sisters had bemoaned his unruly hair, and eventually just shorn him like a sheep (which had probably done very little for his looks, in retrospect); Cardinal Wolsey remarked once that he looked a bit like an alert fox; and even Liz, his late wife... though she'd loved him, and he her, she had often remarked that she hadn't married him for his looks. But now, with Clara... even if he wasn't the most good-looking man, she was still attracted to him, and some essentially male part of his mind could not help but be extremely gratified at the visible, obvious reactions he inspired in this woman. Especially since it was Clara—the scion of an old family who had previously dismissed the idea of marrying him as ludicrous. It wasn't so ludicrous now, was it?

Before he could forget himself and do something to make her balk and run—something like calling her on her obvious desire—Thomas rearranged his face and put on the mask of a courtier again, using the excuse of practise to master himself once more. Clara saw the shift in his expression and with a faint sigh arranged her own face, preparing for another round of questions.

* * *

_27 January, 1529_

That Wednesday morning, Clara finally drummed up enough courage to have a discussion she'd been putting off. She was up with the dawn, as usual, and once she was dressed she went and lingered in the hallway outside the mistress' chambers until she heard Agnes stirring. Waiting until Agnes was probably mostly dressed and awake, Clara finally stepped forth and knocked on the door.

The door opened a crack and the face of Agnes' maid peered out. "Yes?" she asked politely.

"May I speak with Lady Agnes at her earliest convenience?" Clara inquired.

Agnes voice sounded from inside. "Is that Clara? Bessie, show her in!"

Bessie opened the door the rest of the way and ushered Clara into Agnes' chambers. Agnes herself was sitting on a chair before her dressing table, wrapped in a blue brocade dressing gown trimmed with rabbit fur with her golden hair spilling down her back, and she turned with a smile as Clara entered her chambers. "Good morning, Clara. You're up early—especially given the hours you've been keeping of late," she added leadingly, with a suggestive grin.

Clara felt her cheeks growing pink, but did as she'd been practising and arranged her face. "I always rise early," was all she said, moving to take up a place behind her friend before reaching over her shoulder to take up the comb from the table. "Here, I'll brush your hair for you."

"Mmm, thank you," Agnes replied, closing her eyes as Clara began to gently run the comb through her honey-blonde locks. "Bessie, I'll wear the indigo velvet today, with the gold sleeves," she called to her maid, who curtsied and left the room to fetch the gown as commanded. "There," she added, lowering her voice, "we won't be overheard. Tell me what's going on. Where have you been running off to of late?"

"Last night I was with the family whose daughters I have been tutoring in household management," Clara replied, keeping her eyes on Agnes' golden hair as she slowly ran the comb through it, putting Thomas' lessons to use as she tried to tell Agnes the truth without telling her outright that she'd been spending so much time with Thomas Cromwell. He hadn't yet given her leave to make plain their association.

"And the other times?" Agnes pressed, arching her eyebrow and trying to catch Clara's eye in the mirror set on the table before them. "Unless you are spending nearly every night with that same family... whose name you haven't given, by the way."

"I keep the secrets I'm asked to keep, Agnes, you know that," Clara returned softly, meeting her friend's gaze in the mirror. "I can only tell you that I am attempting to get a place at court, and am being tutored by a courtier to that effect. That reminds me," she said, recalling something she needed to ask. "Do you know of any good rental properties in the City? I can't keep infringing on your hospitality."

"Oh yes, you can," Agnes insisted, reaching up to grab Clara's hand. "In fact, I beg you, stay here. As long as you like, stay here," she finished, squeezing Clara's hand in punctuation. At Clara's slightly confused look, the blonde shrugged a little and murmured, very softly, "It makes things easier, if you're in the house. We both have a good excuse."

Clara understood now. As long as she was Agnes' guest, Benedict could come and go without raising any eyebrows, claiming that he was only at the house to visit his sister. Should she leave, and take lodgings elsewhere, it would make it harder for the paramours to meet. "I won't be your go-between," she warned her friend softly, stepping away to emphasise that she wanted no part of their affair.

"And I'm not asking you to be," Agnes retorted impatiently. "I'm just asking you to stay and... and..."

"Be your excuse," Clara sighed. She closed her eyes for a moment and quickly considered the matter. Renting property, especially in London, was expensive, and her finances were tight at the moment after Christmas and her new dresses and especially after the deal with Spencer required her to shell out massive amounts of cash (she still couldn't believe she'd essentially paid for the man to take her son away). Staying with Agnes would save her money... and yet, it would also make her party to her friend's sin, for she would be tacitly consenting and even allowing herself to be used in a way to further the adulterous relationship. Nevertheless, Agnes was still one of her dearest friends, and Benedict was her brother, and sooner or later she'd be going to court and getting out of the stew anyway, wouldn't she? And they were going to do it anyway, weren't they, with or without her help? Perhaps if she consented and stayed, they wouldn't be caught and there would be no scandal. And if she was particularly lucky, the affair would end before she left. "All right," she allowed softly. "I'll stay. Thank you for your continuing hospitality."

"Well, you're the one who's going to have to tell Marion," Agnes warned, smiling widely at Clara's consent. "I'm not dealing with your sister-in-law for you."

Clara cringed. "That will be an enjoyable conversation," she grumbled.

"You can't duck the issue forever," Agnes pointed out. "Nor keep avoiding her. She's already started wondering why you tarry in London, and we are both very curious about where you have been spending all your time, especially since you sneak into the house so late at night."

"I'll speak with her, I promise," Clara murmured, taking up the comb once more and running it through her friend's long golden hair, trying to divert the conversation away from that information.

"Before you leave tonight?" Agnes challenged, a sly look coming over her face. "Tell me, Clara, this courtier of yours... is he handsome?"

Before she could even think of pulling on her fledgling court-expression, Clara's entire face went bright red.

"I knew it!" cried Agnes, whirling around on her stool and grabbing Clara's hands. She leapt up and dragged her friend, still beet-red, over to her bed whereupon she sat down upon it and pulled Clara down next to her, bending their heads together. "Tell me all about him! What's his name? How did you meet? What's he look like?" she demanded excitedly.

"Agnes..." Clara whined, trying to turn away or hide her blushing face, which was apparently revealing all her secrets. She really needed to practise arranging her face.

Agnes, however, kept a tight grip on her hands and refused to let her hide. "Oh, come Clara," her blonde friend wheedled, keeping their hands clasped together and bouncing up and down on the mattress in anticipation. "I promise not to tell anyone—not Marion or your brother or anyone!"

Clara bit her lip, and then gave in. "I can't tell you his name—not yet," she warned. "I... met him in November. He offered to help me with my case, and was a fount of very good advice during the whole mess. He's a widower, and lost two of his children in the Sweat." Thus far, all this was true.

"So he's intelligent and kind and you have something in common," Agnes surmised with a grin. "Good. Go on! What does he look like?"

"He's not traditionally handsome—I admit I did not think him so comely when first we met, but there's something about him that makes me want to look at him all the time," Clara went on, slowly warming to the subject. "I can't decide whether his eyes are blue or grey, but they're clear and beautiful with long dark lashes. And his ears... they're adorable, the way they stick out from his head. And he has lovely, thick, dark curls—I just... I always want to run my fingers through his hair," she admitted with a blush and a sheepish grin.

Agnes squealed delightedly. "Oh, go on!" she entreated. "What else, what else?"

By this point, Clara was blushing and beaming at the same time. It felt like such a relief to finally be able to speak aloud to someone the feelings which had been boiling in her chest for ages. "He has a tiny little dimple in his chin, right here," she continued, pulling a hand out of Agnes' grip to touch a finger to the centre of her chin. "Sometimes, when he smiles at me, I just want kiss him, right there." Both she and Agnes paused for a brief paroxysm of giggles—or rather, Agnes giggled, and Clara shook violently as she giggled silently.

"Tell me about his legs!" Agnes demanded next, once the mirth had subsided slightly. "Are they well-formed?"

"Very," Clara replied, biting her lip and closing her eyes for a moment. "He is tall, and rather slender of build, but strong."

"Oh? And how do you know?" Agnes asked slyly.

Clara felt the blush on her face grow even more intense; it felt almost as though she was feverish. "Nothing like that, Agnes," she retorted, her tone teasingly snippy. "He taught me how to throw a proper punch one evening, after...er." She barrelled on past any reference to her shenanigans in Charing, and added, "But he can be gentle, too; he is always so kind to me, especially whenever I end up weeping all over him."

"Does he take you in his arms and dry your tears?" Agnes asked dreamily.

"Well no, but he lends me a handkerchief whenever I need one," Clara admitted. "And sometimes he uses the very tips of his fingers to brush away the tears." She closed her eyes and fell back onto Agnes' bed, trailing her own hand across her cheek and remembering that night at Austin Friars after she'd met Simon Wayte again, and how Thomas' fingertips had brushed across her skin, leaving heat in his wake as he wiped her chilly tears away in the moonlight. The memory, even now, made a little shiver run up her spine, and she sighed deeply in recollection, clasping her hands together over her chest. "He touches me seldom, but when he does he's so gentle, as though he's afraid I'll break or flee. But that's only when he touches me," she continued meditatively, keeping her eyes shut as she lay on her back. "He thinks I am stronger than I'm given credit for. He says I'm a marvel and that I have a 'charming little reckless streak' and he says... he says he has every faith in me and that he sometimes thinks I'm the answer to his prayers."

She heard Agnes laugh a little wistfully beside her. "Well, he seems like the very best of men," her friend remarked. "I hope we will one day be able to meet this paragon."

Clara opened her eyes and looked up at her friend, who was leaning over her with a smile on her face. "I hope so too," she agreed, returning the expression. She could imagine a quiet evening around the fire with Ben and Agnes and Marion and Thomas and maybe even Meg and Will Roper, drinking spiced ale and chatting comfortably.

"Do you think you'll marry him, one day?" Agnes wondered idly, picking up a lock of Clara's chestnut hair and winding it around her finger.

"Why does everyone always think we're going to get married?" Clara grumbled, frowning a little. Why did they always have to dangle what she couldn't have in front of her eyes, taunting her with its impossibility and her inability to grasp it?

"Because you talk about him like he hung the moon," Agnes replied dryly.

Clara heaved a sigh and rolled over onto her stomach, burying her face into the silken bedclothes. Agnes had a point, however much she didn't want to acknowledge it. As did Alice, Joan, Richard, and Gregory; as did Arthur. She and Thomas were... well. They were such close friends that it was apparently a little misleading, and she'd be lying if she said she didn't ever think or dream about what would happen should the two of them pass from being friends to being something else—something closer. But at the same time, she refused to give up a friendship which had become one of the very brightest parts of her life just because people kept drawing erroneous conclusions and because Thomas made her heart pound and her palms sweat.

She couldn't ever marry him. George Spencer would take it as evidence of... of bad character or foolishness or something else that made her an unfit mother and revoke her rights to Arthur; and Father... Father would come down from Norfolk and throttle her. She was a Gage, from an old Norfolk family. And Thomas... Thomas was a nobody from Putney. No matter how much she liked him, and wanted to spend most of her time with him, and wanted to care for him and let him care for her, and... well, frankly, how much she wanted to peel off most of his clothes, that gulf was still between them, impossible to bridge. Perhaps in another couple of generations, Arthur's granddaughter could marry Gregory's grandson, but right now, Thomas and Clara were separated by too many rungs on the social ladder.

She resolutely did not think of Anne Boleyn and His Majesty, the King.

Clara felt the bed beside her shift and, upon being prodded, rolled over onto her side to see that Agnes had lain down beside her, her blue eyes expectant. "Do you love him?" she asked earnestly.

Clara shook her head as best she could as she lay prone on her side. "No. I mean, he has become one of my dearest friends but..." she sighed, and tried to hide her face in the bedclothes again. Agnes, however, reached out and prevented her. "Robin hasn't even been dead for a year, yet," she said softly. A truth, but not the truth; she'd dropped too much information about Thomas already, and if she kept revealing piecemeal truths (like his social status, which would be a rather large clue about the identity of the thus-far anonymous man, and which would also certainly get her teased for her low standards) Agnes would put a name to her mysterious friend in no time.

"So?" Agnes challenged bluntly.

"Agnes!" Clara protested.

"I understand you loved him, but he's dead," Agnes pointed out. "He's dead, and you're not, and you're still young enough—and rich enough—to marry again if you wanted. Besides, weren't you Sir Robert's second wife anyway?"

"So?" Clara mimicked.

Agnes frowned and reached out to pinch Clara's nose. "So, he remarried after the death of his spouse. Why can't you?"

"Because it's too soon," Clara protested. "I loved him, he was a good husband, and I owe him the respect of a year of mourning."

"All right," Agnes said dubiously. "But on your head be it." Clara's brow crinkled in a silent question, and her blonde friend gave her a warning look. "Your... 'friend' sounds like quite the catch, you know. If you wait too long, he might look elsewhere for a wife."

For some reason, the thought of another woman in Thomas Cromwell's life was like being punched in the gut. He wouldn't be able to spend as much time with her, if he was married. If he was married, another woman would take over Alice and Joan's lessons; another woman would undertake the task of bringing Gregory out of his shell; another woman would attend the underground sermons on Thomas' arm and sit with him after, basking in his subtle smiles and the gleam in his eyes. Another woman would be his marvel, and the answer to his prayers.

The very idea was repulsive.

But... Robin—how could she betray him like that, by taking another husband before he'd been in his grave for even a full year? She already felt the guilt of being so drawn to another man; actually marrying someone else would make it worse. And what about Spencer? And Father's anger? And her certain social disgrace?

But... she couldn't bear the idea of Thomas not having time for her, either.

"I..." Clara breathed, feeling torn and confused. "I don't... I can't..."

"I'm not saying you should run off and marry him tomorrow," Agnes said, rolling her eyes even as she reached out and threw an arm across Clara's bicep, drawing the two of them closer as they lay facing each other on her bed, sharing confidences as they used to before, when they were just maids to the Duchess of Norfolk. "I'm just suggesting that you be a little more open to the idea. Especially because you obviously like him, and are plainly interested in bedding him too."

The blush, which had subsided as they spoke of marriage and tangled Clara up into knots, flared back into life. "Agnes!" she protested.

"Don't be coy, Clara," she chided. "You were the one talking about his curls and his dimples and how much you wanted to kiss him and sighing over the way he touches you. There's a word for that, sweetheart, and it's called lust."

Clara groaned in dismay, rolling onto her back and pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.

The hell of it was, Agnes was right. And her friend didn't even know the whole story—Clara hadn't said anything about the way Thomas made her heart skip and flutter, or the way he made her shiver when he took her hands in his, or the way his lopsided smile made her heart pound and her breath come short, or the way his voice, when it grew deep and smooth, made her fidget and rub her thighs together, or the way even the mere sight of him in the moonlight anymore made her want to reach out and run her hands over every single part of him. She hadn't quite known what to call it before Agnes gave it a name, given that she'd never experienced such fierce, raw, potent sensations with a man before now, but now she felt stupid for not realising earlier.

Agnes rolled over and pulled Clara's hands away from her face, grinning down at her smugly. "Not so easy to dismiss, is it? I seem to recall an axiom from the Bible about seeing a mote in your brother's eye while neglecting the plank in your own..." she taunted.

Clara scowled at her friend and reached out to poke her in the side, which made her squeal. "The difference here is that I haven't done anything," she retorted.

"But you want to," Agnes pointed out with a sly smile.

Clara's blush was answer enough.

Agnes flopped back down onto her side, grinning. "It's not like it's a mortal sin," she offered pragmatically.

"That's not really the point, Agnes," Clara replied flatly. "I... he's my friend. He's my friend, and Robin was my husband."

"Benedict is my friend," Agnes returned with a wolfish smile. "Oh, the things I could tell you about the tips of his fingers..."

Clara shrieked in dismay, and Agnes just threw back her head and laughed.

* * *

Later that day, after dinner, Clara caught Marion before she could return to the nursery, where she had taken to spending a lot of time with Henry, into Agnes' withdrawing room, and sat her down by the fire. Marion was wearing a simple woollen gown and a coif, and looked a little wry as she settled into her chair. "Well, Clara?" she asked. "Have you had done with avoiding me?"

Clara blushed, though this time with shame. She had been avoiding Marion more than a little of late. "I'm sorry about that," she apologised.

"It's all right, sweetheart. I know how much leaving Arthur hurt," Marion soothed gently, reaching out to grasp Clara's hands and stroke them gently between her own. "Are you feeling better? You haven't been around much—have you been hiding in the churches again?"

And now she felt incredibly guilty. Not only was she being unfaithful to Robert's memory by lusting after Cromwell, she was also treating Robin's sister rather shabbily as well, and Marion was being so sweet to her. "Yes," Clara agreed uncomfortably. "I mean, no. Well, sometimes. I..." She trailed off. How to bring this up without saying outright, _Marion, I'm staying in London_?

Thankfully, Marion introduced the topic herself. "So, dear one, what now?" she inquired, pulling Clara into a chair and keeping hold of her hands. "Are we to stay in London until spring? It's a long journey to Leicestershire in winter."

Clara seized on that like a cat onto a mouse. "Have you come to like London better?" she asked hopefully.

Marion shrugged. "It has its charms. I took little Henry out to see a puppet show the other day—it was quite diverting—and there are numerous minstrels about. I enjoy the music," she admitted.

"That's... good," Clara replied brightly, with a nervous smile. "I'm glad you like it... because I'm going to stay." Marion's jaw fell open, and she turned a surprised, almost horrified look onto Clara, who fidgeted awkwardly and soldiered on. "Leicestershire is too far—London is closer to Berkshire, and remaining in the city will make it easier for me to visit Arthur." Marion still said nothing, and her silence made Clara squirm—especially because her sister's grip on her hands was becoming uncomfortably tight. Nervously, she went on, "I don't ask you to stay; if you wish to return to Ardley without me, I'll let you have the carriage whenever you like. But I am going to remain here and try for a place at court. My... well, given the nature of the deal I struck with Spencer, I've been advised that it would be a good idea for me to try for a place in the Queen's household so that wretched man can't cook up a scandal from nothing, and since Ben got a place in the King's household I... well, it's very possible for me. Agnes says I may stay here until such a time as I... make or mar, so to speak," she finished uneasily. Marion was still staring mutely at her, and Clara tried to draw some speech from her, voicing a direct question: "I... what are your wishes, Marion? Do you wish to return to Ardley as soon as the weather warms?"

"Without you?" Marion asked plaintively, finally prodded into speaking. "Without Arthur? I would be utterly alone."

"No, then?" Clara surmised, understanding how unwilling Marion would be to return to the country and rattle around the castle alone. "Er... I'm sure Agnes would host you..." Marion's flat, cynical expression clearly conveyed her sentiments about that. Clara agreed inwardly; it would be odd and uncomfortable for Marion to continue to impose on Agnes' hospitality once the only person who connected them was lodged elsewhere. "Or we could rent a house!" she suggested desperately. Something plucked at her memory, and she went on worriedly, "Actually, don't we own a hunting lodge or something in Essex, or somewhere?"

"Surrey," Marion corrected woodenly.

"Then we don't even need to rent a house!" she offered with a sickly smile. Marion just looked at her with flat, unhappy blue eyes, finally releasing her grip on Clara's hands and settling back in the chair, crossing her arms over her chest and scowling. Clara cringed, her smile falling right off her face.

The two women sat in uncomfortable silence for a long moment, until Marion broke it. "We are not to go home after all," she said lowly. Clara shook her head. "That's why you were avoiding me. You didn't want to tell me," Marion accused. Clara nodded guiltily. "How long have you been planning this?" she asked, not quite hiding the accusation in her voice.

"Um." Clara groped desperately for a truth she could tell Marion without telling her the whole truth, like Thomas had taught her. "Only a couple of weeks," she replied in a small voice. Technically, she had been resolved to remain in London for much longer, but had only resolved a few weeks hence to get a place at court. It was a truth, but not the truth. The truth would only hurt Marion, and it was plain that her sister was hurting enough as it was.

"Where does that leave me?" Marion demanded suddenly, angrily. "What am I to do with myself?"

Clara shrank under Marion's anger, knowing it was justified and unable to do anything but suffer it. "I don't know," she admitted weakly. "But I'm sure I can—"

Marion huffed and used her hands to launch herself out of her chair, storming from the room and slamming the door behind her.

"...think of something," Clara finished feebly.

* * *

_31 January, 1529_

"Has Marion started speaking to you yet?" Thomas inquired as they walked back to Shoreditch from the sermon (held in Cheapside) that Sunday. It was a bitterly cold winter evening, and their breath puffed out in plumes of mist whenever they exhaled.

Clara sighed, and nestled deeper into her furs, feeling her elbow brush against Thomas' arm as they walked. The contact, however brief and through however many layers, sent a thrill through her body which both delighted and annoyed her. It seemed, now that Agnes had given a name to the responses and urges she had when she and Thomas were in company, they'd become stronger... and harder to control. "Not really," she replied glumly, swaying a little closer to her companion's body. "She really was quite angry. And justly so—I did keep just about everything from her, and spring this all on her without warning."

"Must you answer to her?" Thomas asked mildly. Clara shook her head. "Then don't flagellate yourself too badly."

"I know," Clara sighed, watching as it condensed before her eyes into a white cloud, and then dissipated. "But I can't help feeling a little guilty about it. She is my sister, after all, and as she's unmarried she is technically under my care. Even if I don't have to answer to her, per se... well, it is her life, too. And it's not her fault I'm leaving her behind." She sighed again. "She doesn't want to go back to Leicestershire alone—and I don't blame her—but where else can she go? At least I've got time to contrive something... that is, if she'd speak to me again," she said gloomily.

They slipped quietly and subtly through the back gates into the Cromwell's yard, and Clara turned to watch Thomas shut the gate behind them and waited until he was beside her again to move towards the door. Her heart skipped a few beats as he helped her out of her heavy wraps, his hands brushing against her shoulders; her stomach fluttered as she preceded him up the stairs to his privy closet, feeling him at her back; and there was a heavy heat in the pit of her stomach as he helped her settle in a chair before the fire and handed her a goblet of heated wine, his fingers sliding against hers. That heat migrated down to settle between her legs as she watched him sit down in his own chair next to hers and stretch out his legs—those long, slender, shapely legs, encased in clinging woollen hose—out in front of him, flexing his feet towards the fire before settling them down on the hearth. Her eyes followed the lines of his body upwards, lingering on his velvet-wrapped thighs before wandering up his trim torso; and when her gaze reached his neck, it was drawn by the movement of his throat as he sipped at his wine. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, as she fidgeted a little in her chair, pressing her thighs together as her eyes locked on that subtle movement.

The moment broke when Thomas flicked his grey eyes over to catch her gaze, and lifted a brow in a silent question. Clara felt her face flood with colour, and she ducked her head, shying away, as the... the... (_oh, just __say__ it_) lust subsided and she felt a little less likely to do something stupid. But her heart had been pounding so hard that even now her hands were trembling around her pewter goblet.

This was getting out of control. It hadn't been so bad before—oh, Clara had long ago noticed that Thomas was compellingly attractive, of course, and she'd done more than her fair share of looking since the beginning of their acquaintance, and there had been more than one occasion when they looked at each other and something sparked hot and heavy between them, but she'd been too preoccupied with the business of trying to keep her son that it had been easy to shove it all the back of her mind and ignore it.

Now, though, she had no such matters to occupy her attention—she'd lost her son, her father was gone, and the worst strife in her life was the fact that Agnes was sleeping with her brother and Marion wasn't speaking to her. And while these things were slightly vexing, they weren't as overwhelmingly important, especially because there wasn't much she could actually do about them. Meanwhile, she was spending even more time with Thomas as he trained her for a place at court. All this time spent together gave her feelings ample time to grow inconveniently strong—especially now as she remembered everything Agnes had said to her that morning, and everything to which she'd confessed.

"I received a letter from Gregory yesterday," Thomas remarked, breaking the silence between them. "He asked to be remembered to you."

Clara smiled widely. "Oh, Gregory! How is he settling in?" Thomas' son was a safe topic of conversation, and a firm reminder of the reality that existed outside of the warm candlelit cocoon she was in right now—the reality where she was a Gage and Thomas was himself and there was wretch of a man waiting for any bad behaviour on her part to take away the most important thing in her whole life. But even beyond her appreciation of Gregory as a helpful buffer between herself and his father, she was quite fond of the quiet young man; he was kind and tactful and had of course been very good to Arthur. Her lips curled up into a fond smile as she remembered finding the two of them huddled together under the stairs as Gregory told Arthur a story.

"Well, I presume," Thomas replied, frowning a little. Clearly he was not enjoying the same recollections as she. "It wasn't much of a letter."

Clara glanced at him curiously. He sounded oddly downcast for having received news of his only child. "What does he study?" she asked tentatively, wondering if Gregory wasn't much of a scholar and that was why Thomas sounded so... unenthusiastic. "That is, what are you preparing him for?"

"I honestly don't know," Thomas admitted dryly, heaving a quiet sigh and running a hand through his hair. Clara's fingers twitched with the desire to reach out and follow suit and rake her hand through the crisp, dark curls (would they be soft or wiry or springy?), but she just tightened her grip on her goblet and turned her mind back to Gregory, hoping his spectre in the room would keep her from doing anything... rash.

"Well, he's young," she offered lamely, her mind running back over her encounters with the young man. "He's good at talking to people," she added after a moment's thought. "Perhaps he could go to court?"

Thomas' face turned slightly wry. "You forget, Clara, that we are not so well-born as you," he reminded her. "Gregory is but the son of a base-born lawyer, and such as he do not generally become courtiers."

Clara's face went bright red with embarrassment. She really, really wished she'd bitten her tongue before saying anything about the differences in their social stations. There were more tactful ways of putting paid to any rumours of marriage between them, and while she used the differences in their birth as a talisman to ward off her attraction to the man and keep herself from doing anything she'd regret, she didn't have to say anything. She should've left it alone, and bitten her tongue in half before driving this awkward wedge between them. "I didn't... I said... you don't... you're more than that and you know it, Thomas," she mumbled uncomfortably, hunching her shoulders and ducking her head.

An awkward silence descended; Clara could feel Thomas' eyes on her, but she kept her own gaze locked on her lap. She wasn't sure if he was still angry about her stupid words, but she felt as though there was a mass of butterflies in her stomach, and didn't quite feel strong enough or stern enough to look up and check for certain. Because if he was angry, she would be hurt herself in turn; and if he wasn't... if he wasn't, and he was looking at her like he sometimes did, as though she was a treasure, with the firelight casting his face warm golden light, Clara couldn't be certain of her own response.

Eventually, Thomas seemed to realise she wouldn't be moving, and changed the subject to the sermon they'd heard that evening, and they talked about less sensitive issues for the rest of the night.

* * *

_4 February, 1529_

"..._está enviando una carta a través de una sierva del embajador_," Thomas said, leaning back into his chair. "Now, translate."

"The queen is sending a letter... with the servant of the ambassador?" Clara replied after a moment.

"Through a servant," Thomas corrected. "But good."

"_Gracias, Señor Secretario_," Clara said with a sly little smile, and her Spanish accent was flawless. "_He estando practicado_."

"You've been practising?" Thomas repeated curiously. "With whom?"

Clara arranged her face—she'd become so good at it of late that even he was having some troubles reading her face when she pulled that mask on—and shrugged a little. "Nobody in particular," she replied lightly.

Thomas raised his eyebrows, and let a miniscule smirk tug the corner of his mouth upwards. "Really?" he inquired. Because though her tone and her face said one thing (_it's nothing, and I am uninterested in the subject_), the angle of her shoulders and her head were saying something rather different (_I've done something clever; ask me, and I will tell you_).

Clara spoke as much with her body as she did with her mouth, and now that she was learning to guard her tongue and arrange her face, Thomas found he was looking more and more for signs from the rest of her... which was doing absolutely nothing to help quell the lust which rose in him with increasing regularity as he kept a close watch on her body from the neck down to pick up the hints and signals she was learning to conceal on her face. Even now, he let his eyes rake her body from her dainty feet to her dancing eyes, reading what he could from her posture... and wishing, rather fervently, that he could strip her out of her clothes and read her naked. He imagined following the lines of her delicate, birdlike collarbones to the slender arches of her shoulders where her laughter dwelled, down to the swells of her pale, petite breasts, pushed up by the bodice of her gown, under which beat her heart—would her breathing quicken under his hands, or stutter and become shallow? He wanted to trail his hands down her torso to her lithe waist and narrow hips, and from thence down into uncharted territory which only a husband or lover would ever have to right to see.

Thomas reined in his unruly thoughts right there—the last thing he needed was to embarrass himself in front of the skittish Clara, and the doublet he was wearing right now would do nothing to hide how exciting certain parts of him found his imaginings. Instead, he lifted his eyes back to hers as he took deep, steady breaths and crossed his legs.

Clara apparently hadn't noticed his distraction, and was still keeping her face impeccably indifferent. "Really," she replied earnestly. But those slender, graceful shoulders were quivering with repressed laughter, and her fingers were twisted into her skirts.

"Clara," he said warningly, teasingly, clenching his fists in his lap as the urge to lay his hands on her shoulder blades and feel her silent mirth under his palms rose up, and his skin itched to feel hers.

That slight teasing was enough to make her expression collapse, her noncommittal mask falling away to be replaced with a wide grin. "I've been making friends in the city," she explained proudly. "I've been spending some time at the Exchange, and listening, and I struck up an acquaintance with a merchant from La Coruña who's been helping me with my Spanish. He's very kind."

Thomas stiffened slightly, and dug his blunt fingernails into the palms of his hands before his face could show any hint of his displeasure or his jealousy. Who was this new friend, this merchant of whom she spoke? Was he married? Handsome? Charming? Interested in the sweet, pretty lady who wanted to learn his native tongue? Did this Spaniard think to reach so high and marry her, and take this English rose back to Spain? Perhaps he'd even help Clara steal Arthur away from Spencer, and take the little family back to Spain beyond the reach of even Thomas Boleyn.

The rage that flared up inside him at the mental image was surprising in its intensity, albeit not in its origins, especially as it was accompanied by fear. Thomas knew Clara was curious about the world beyond England, and wished very much to travel and see it for herself. Would she be able to overlook their disparate social backgrounds for the promise of travel to Spain? Would she leave her homeland, and her son... and leave him?

He reined in his fury and made sure his voice was even as he inquired, "Who is this man? I admit I have few ties to the Spanish merchants, but perhaps we are acquainted through a mutual friend," he commented, exerting himself to appear as though he was no more than idly curious. He had to find out the man's name, so that if the Spaniard did take it into his head to try and poach on Cromwell territory, Thomas could do all he could to have the man's import licenses revoked and all his merchandise impounded. If Clara was going to overcome her scruples and take up with a mercer or a burgher or anyone below her in rank, it was going to be Thomas Cromwell and no other.

"His name is Pedro Fernandez," Clara supplied helpfully, utterly oblivious to Thomas' mental and emotional turmoil. "He has a son in the business with him as well, who isn't much older than Gregory. I'm not entirely certain whether his wife is back in Spain or here in London with them, but I know her name is Beatriz. Isn't that a pretty name?"

Something inside Thomas' chest relaxed slightly upon realising that the man was married with children, and a probable wife. In that case, he very much doubted that Clara would take up with him should the man even be interested, and therefore he wouldn't have to exert himself to ruin the Spanish merchant. "I am not acquainted with him," he admitted, rather more calm inside. No one was challenging his hegemony over Clara, it seemed.

"I didn't think you would be," Clara replied with a shrug. "I know you deal mostly with the broadcloth trade, but I think Señor Fernandez imports spices. He got me quite a good deal on some marmalade, too. I think I might give it to Sir Thomas for his birthday—it's on Sunday. Or do you think that would be too pointed a commentary on the cuisine at his house?"

Thomas outwardly snorted with amusement while inside his jealousy roared back into life like bile in his throat. Thomas More, again, intruding on his time with Clara—because it had been come to be tacitly understood between them that Sundays were to be spent together. He didn't mind sharing her with her family, perhaps, if necessary, but to share her time with Thomas More? It was like acid in his mouth. "A commentary, perhaps, but not too pointed," he commented tightly. "I'm sure future guests to the house will thank you."

"You don't like him, do you?" Clara asked suddenly, her dark eyes intent on his face.

"Why do you say that?" Thomas inquired in return, deflecting the question, not wanting her to dig too deeply into this matter.

It wasn't that he disliked Thomas More, per se. It wasn't that he liked the man, either—because he didn't. Oh, Cromwell respected his scholarship, his integrity, and his intellect, and appreciated the international prestige he brought to England. He also enjoyed the man's wit, when it wasn't turned against himself. But personally, he didn't care for More's policies towards religious reform, his rather dismissive way of dealing with his social inferiors, or his self-righteousness, which grated on Cromwell's teeth. And he absolutely loathed the way More treated Clara, as though she were a talented pet, and the way his presence made her content with such treatment. He might like More better in that respect if Clara liked him less.

Not that he was going to tell her any of that.

"Because you have your court face on," Clara retorted wryly, coming around to lean against his desk and reaching out again to touch the tips of her first two fingers to his eyebrows, stroking lightly the furrows there before drawing her hand away to support herself up against the desk.

"I might just be scowling," Thomas challenged, lifting his brows in a challenge as he leaned back in his chair.

"Which leads me back to my original query. You don't like Sir Thomas, do you?" Clara repeated, sliding along the edge of his desk to stand right up next to him, close enough that Thomas could've reached out and caught her around her waist and pulled her into his lap. He opened his mouth, but she reached out and put her fingers to his lips. His heart stilled, then began to pound. "Don't," she bid him softly. "Don't... I... you may be teaching me to... um, equivocate, but when it's only you and me together, I'll never give you anything but the truth, and I... would like if you did the same." Her eyes were bright and her cheeks pink as she moved her fingers from his lips to trail them across his face to cradle his jaw in her hand.

Thomas let her touch him, feeling his heart stir in his chest. He wanted to reach out and draw her to him and pull her lips down to follow where her fingers had passed. But he stayed his desires; it was as if Clara was a timid fox or rabbit he had to lure into the trap, and if he sprung it too soon then the quarry would startle, flee, and be lost. And if he took her now, she would panic and run, and be lost to him. She was coming closer and closer, but wasn't yet close enough.

He suddenly felt a strange sympathy with the King, who was locked in a preternatural chase of his own.

"You don't like Thomas More," Clara said for a third time.

"He's a heretic hunter, Clara, and you and I are heretics," Thomas reminded her, feeling his face move against her skin as he spoke, fighting the urge to close his eyes and bask in the sensation—this was one of the only tender, affectionate, prolonged touches he'd received in more than a year, and he'd forgotten how much he missed them. "I keep my distance, but you... you go and beard the lion in his den, and I worry for you. And not just because you know enough to ruin me and my entire family." He said nothing of his jealousy; he would tell her a truth, but not the whole truth.

Clara smiled at him, and he could tell she was pleased by his words. "Don't worry, Thomas," she said. "I'm still a relative nobody, and unless I put myself forward, Sir Thomas never takes note of me." The last was said with a decided rind of bitterness. "Besides," she added, her voice losing its acrimony and becoming slightly teasing, "you might have a little faith in your own tutelage."

"A leopard can't change its spots, Clara," Thomas retorted, reaching up to tweak her nose gently. "And you are an intrinsically honest soul." It was, he mused, one of the things he liked best about her, because it made her so very easy to be with.

* * *

_7 February, 1529_

"I'm surprised you're still in London, Clara," Sir Thomas More remarked when he came over to thank her for both the birthday well-wishes and the gift of the Spanish marmalade, which she had come by to deliver. She hadn't expected him to be home, but he was, having apparently decided to celebrate his birthday quietly, in Chelsea, with his family. "I had thought you'd be gone back to the country by now. Leicestershire, isn't it?"

"Yes," Clara confirmed. "But I have decided to remain in London for the foreseeable future."

"Have you?" More inquired idly. "I hadn't thought you were very fond of the city."

Clara shrugged a little. "The company is better here," she said with a grin, nodding to where Meg was bent over a book with her husband Will. Sir Thomas smiled at the compliment to his daughter, and she went on, "London is also closer to Berkshire than Leicestershire, for another, which will make it easier for me to visit my son. And I'm trying for a place at court, as well."

That brought More up short, and he turned his full attention onto her with an incredulous look. Clara blushed a little under his scrutiny, turning even redder as he repeated disbelievingly, "Go to court? You?"

Clara wasn't sure if she should be offended by More's incredulity or not. On the one hand, she was well aware that she was not, on the whole, the stuff from which the usual courtiers were made, and thus a measure of disbelief was understandable. She herself had been quite dubious about the idea of going to court, before she had become firmly resolved to go and do her best to acquire a measure of power and influence which she might use against George Spencer. But on the other hand... on the other hand, was it truly so unbelievable? Did he think her so unable to adapt and grow and learn? Thomas Cromwell believed in her, and had faith that she would acquit herself; why didn't Thomas More?

She arranged her face and replied evenly, "Yes, me. Given the nature of my contract with Master Spencer... well, a friend suggested that it might be wise for me to find a place where it would be nigh impossible for him to... er, abuse the conditions of the deal we struck with unfounded accusations against my character, and... the Queen's household seemed like a good place," Clara explained haltingly, trying to remember the exact words Cromwell had used, since his arguments always sounded more refined and logical and eloquent than her awkward stumbles.

Apparently More agreed with her internal assessment, since he was nodding with approval. "Your friend gives you good advice," he commented, lilting his voice upwards in an implied question. He wanted to know to whom she was listening.

Clara pretended not to hear it. "He does," she confirmed.

"Was he the one advising you during the case?" Sir Thomas probed gently.

"One of several," Clara evaded, arranging her face. "I had many people assisting me... for all the good it did," she added in a bitter undertone.

"Bitterness doesn't suit you, Clara," More chided her gently. He seemed to realise she didn't want to discuss the identity of her friend, and changed the subject. "Have you any word on when you are to join Her Majesty's service?"

"No," Clara replied, shaking her head. "Nothing is certain, yet. I know Ben—Benedict, my brother—has a new position in the King's household, and my friends will speak for me as well, but whether or not anything will come of their references is still unknown."

Sir Thomas nodded, and made a noncommittal humming noise. "Have a care, Clara," he warned after a moment. "Court is a dangerous place. Especially for one such as you."

"Dangerous?" Clara repeated confusedly. How could court be dangerous? Should she worry about assassins? Why would anyone want to assassinate her? She was a nobody. Was the building unsound? But surely His Majesty wouldn't live in a dangerous palace. Besides, if there was danger at court, Cromwell would've told her about it. So what now did Sir Thomas speak of, especially with the caveat 'one such as you'?

"You're such an innocent, Clara," Sir Thomas explained. "An innocent, and a woman. It is very easy to lose one's innocence at court, where the ambitious lie in wait and offer bribes and enticements of all sorts. I can only implore you to hold fast to your virtue, no matter what you are offered."

His words and the implications held therein made Clara redden in embarrassment. "You forget, Sir Thomas, that I only go to court for my son, and that one of the conditions attached to the retention of my rights thereto was that I maintain virtuous behaviour at all times," she reminded him stiffly. "I go to court so that no one can falsely accuse me of... of wickedness—I'd hardly indulge in vices of any sort on my own time. It seems... counterproductive."

"And if someone offers you full custody and rights to your son with no conditions, and in return you must compromise your integrity?" More challenged archly.

"I..." Clara began uncertainly, before trailing off and closing her mouth. She'd like to say that she wouldn't do anything against wrong or anything against her conscience, but if someone did come to her and ask her to do something she knew was wrong in return for Arthur's custody... she couldn't say with surety that she wouldn't accept. After all, wasn't she agreeing to spy for Cromwell merely for a place at court? It wasn't much different than gossiping about more important people, the way Thomas explained it, but if she was willing to make a little concession and do something small she knew was probably wrong (gossip was a sin, after all), would she not be willing to make a larger one, too? "I don't know," she finally admitted softly.

"And that, Mistress Mouse, is where the danger lies," Sir Thomas concluded, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder. He met her eyes and held her gaze, and Clara fought the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. "Be on your guard. The Queen is also a most gracious and virtuous lady, and I am certain she will take good care of you when you find yourself in her service."

Clara nodded, rearranging her face to hide the conflict she was feeling as More squeezed her shoulder kindly and disengaged, leaving her as he went to talk to Meg. She was annoyed that Sir Thomas still thought her a child, innocent and in need of guidance. She was ashamed that he had a point about her integrity. She was guilty that she had agreed to spy on someone of whom Sir Thomas thought so highly. And now she was deeply nervous about just what it was she had undertaken.

* * *

_12 February, 1529_

Clara had been distracted, thoughtful, and a little evasive all week. Even though she was progressing marvellously with her lessons in keeping everything she thought and felt from showing on her face, Thomas had made a study of her, and knew well enough to read her eyes, when she'd look at him, and the rest of her body when she wouldn't. He wasn't sure what was on her mind, but he blamed Thomas More for it. She'd only drawn back, a little, after his birthday, and Cromwell assumed More had said something to her.

Since she wasn't avoiding his company or shirking her lessons, Thomas let her ponder, though he kept a close eye to make sure More hadn't talked her out of the entire venture, that she wasn't going to retract her offer and flee back to Leicestershire with her tail between her legs. It galled him to realise that More still had such influence over Clara and her behaviour, and he was feeling so jealous it almost felt like he had constant heartburn. However, Thomas also knew that if he gave into that jealousy and informed her that he didn't want her seeing Thomas More ever again, Clara would bolt. (Well, she would likely think he was a lunatic, and then she would bolt.) He had to keep luring her in closer and closer until flight was no longer an option.

His patience paid off that Friday night when she appeared in his doorway like a spectre. Thomas was down in the counting house with his abacus, looking over the accounts for the clothier's business he really wasn't devoting enough time to anymore (perhaps he should sell it?), and he wasn't aware of her appearance until a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention away from the papers in front of him. "Clara!" Thomas blurted in surprise, once he raised his head to see her in the room. "I... was not expecting you."

She smiled at him, her dark eyes twinkling in the candlelight. It was so dark that nearly all he could see of her was a faint outline in the shadows and the pale skin of her face, luminous in the candlelight. "I know," she replied. "That was the point. No one knows I'm here. Well, except you. And possibly Ralph—I think he left the back door open for me."

"He usually does, nowadays," Thomas replied, neglecting to mention that he'd asked Ralph to make the house easier for Clara to enter surreptitiously. "I didn't think you were quite ready to start climbing gates and picking locks."

Clara bit her lip and looked down, before moving over to take a seat at the table, directly across from him. "Thomas," she said, before trailing off into silence. Thomas waited patiently for her to marshal her thoughts. Finally, she spoke again. "Is it dangerous at court?"

_Is that what she's been worrying about?_ he wondered. It didn't seem like Clara to fret on hypothetical dangers. "It can be," he replied honestly, knowing that he had to answer her honesty with his own—especially because he had no idea what Thomas More had said, or whether a twisting of the truth would reflect badly on him. "If you overlook some quirk of precedence, if you make powerful enemies, if you offend the King or the Cardinal... yes, the court can be dangerous. For you, Clara... if you keep your head down and make no waves, you'll be fine," he assured her.

His words didn't seem to reassure her; her brow was still creased in thought. Then she took a deep breath. "Thomas, am I going to compromise my honour at court?" she asked frankly.

_That's it—that's what More said to her, and that's what she's been worrying about_, Thomas realised. It sounded just like something More would say; everyone knew he tended his conscience and his integrity as though it were a fragile flower in a dainty garden. More had probably made some comment and gotten Clara fretting on the state of her soul, thinking as she likely was about how she was intending to spy on the very lady she was ostensibly going to court to serve. This would take some delicate handling.

"Only if you want to," he replied with a wink, making a joke of it even as his mind whirled with possible methods to pacify this sudden attack of scruples.

It took Clara a moment to realise how her words could be interpreted, but once she did her face went brick-red. "That's not what I meant," she protested, burying her face in her hands.

Thomas laughed lightly and stood, having decided to treat the matter as though it were insignificant; that would probably work best. "Come upstairs," he invited. "Come upstairs, have some refreshment, and we'll talk. A friend of mine from Antwerp sent me a fine barrel of brandy—have you ever had brandy?" he asked as he led her out of the counting house and up into the living quarters. Clara shook her head, following him without question. "Well, you shall have some tonight. I think you'll like it."

He directed her into his withdrawing room, instead of his privy closet, and settled her in a chair padded with velvet in front of the fire before he went to pour the brandy. He wanted this discussion to be between two friends, rather than spymaster and agent, or teacher and student, or anything else which would place them on an unequal footing; he wanted the air to be casual and confidential, and wanted Clara to compare how she felt with Thomas More with how she felt with Thomas Cromwell. She needed to be reminded of how much she trusted him and the fact that it was Cromwell who had helped and was helping her.

Clara accepted the cup with a smile and waited for him to sit down in the chair next to hers before taking a sip. Her face turned thoughtful, and she licked her lips meditatively. Thomas shifted in his seat slightly as the gesture made the low-burning desire which seemed to dog him constantly while in her presence flare brightly into life, and took a sip from his own glass to distract himself from Clara's mouth.

"It's interesting," she finally remarked, occasionally licking her lips as she contemplated the taste of the brandy. "But not bad. It's warming and... sweet, in a way, without being truly sweet. I like it."

"I'm glad," Thomas replied, before falling silent. He'd let Clara bring up the subjects she wished to discuss.

It took a few more sips before she mustered up the courage. "He said I'd lose my innocence at court," she said suddenly. They both knew who 'he' was.

"You're a widow and a mother and a heretic, Clara," Thomas returned dryly. "Not to offend you, but I think your innocence is long gone."

That, however, was a bald-faced lie. Cromwell knew exactly what More was talking about. Though she was an experienced woman in certain ways, as he'd said, Clara still had a sweet, bright-eyed ingenuousness about her; she was honest and trusting and expected the best from people, taking them at face-value without even looking for hidden strings or veiled agendas or buried traps. She couldn't—and wouldn't—lie, and until he took her in hand, every thought and feeling showed on her face; even now, they still glimmered unguardedly in her eyes. And she obviously had no familiarity with the intense, visceral lust which could spring up between a man and a woman, given the skittishness and fidgeting and blushing which afflicted her when he came too close. In many ways, Clara was an innocent. She had no knowledge of just how low human beings could sink, and how reprehensibly some people could behave. The lady herself would likely object, pointing towards her experiences with George Spencer, but that was nothing. She'd dabbled her toes in the ocean, but had no idea of the depths offshore.

Admittedly, that guilelessness was one of the things Thomas liked best about her. He didn't have to explain himself to her; she took him at his word. Her company was relaxing and peaceful, and she looked at him as though he was a better man than he was, having no conception of the darkness which could dwell in a person's soul. It also made her ridiculously easy to manipulate, though Thomas wasn't precisely proud of that. But no matter how much he was coming to... like... Clara (and he did like her—so much that it sometimes worried him), she was far too potentially useful to cut loose. That, and the fact that the mere idea of anyone else making use of or touching or being close to Clara was like bile in his throat. Even now, the remembrance that Thomas More had gone and had some affect on Clara's equilibrium made Thomas Cromwell want to plant his fist in the other man's face.

Clara, unaware of his mental musings, gave a little sigh and lifted her glass in a toast. "Fair enough," she admitted. "That's not really what I meant, though. I fear I'm articulating myself poorly." She took another sip of brandy (_because __that__ will help your articulation_, Thomas thought amusedly) and began again. "Sir Thomas warned me that going to court might end up impugning my integrity and... er, destroying my character. He presented me with a scenario in which someone offered to give me back Arthur in return for doing something against my conscience, and I couldn't say with certainty, were such a situation to arise, that I wouldn't give in," she confessed.

"That doesn't destroy your character," Thomas replied. "That just makes you practical. To a point. Let me put a more specific scenario to you, Clara. We will borrow Sir Thomas' imagining, and say that you have been approached by a man who offers to murder George Spencer and return Arthur to your care. Do you accept?"

"No!" Clara cried immediately.

Thomas nodded, and went on. "I'll put forth another set of hypothetical circumstances. Suppose you are approached by a person who offers to pay Spencer to give up your son, in return for your assistance in poisoning another man. Do you accept?"

Her face was still plainly horrified. "Of course not!"

"Imagine then, that the price of said assistance is that you go to bed with this unnamed courtier. Will you accept that?" he inquired.

"No. I will not sell myself for any price," Clara negated firmly.

"Then what, in God's name, are you worried about?" Thomas asked frankly, raising his brows.

Clara opened her mouth, then paused and shut it, obviously synthesizing the conclusion to which he'd just led her. "Oh," she finally said, looking a little sheepish. She took another drink from her cup to hide her embarrassment; Thomas thought about warning her to drink a little more slowly, but then decided not to.

"I don't think Sir Thomas gives you enough credit for your strength, your intelligence, or your honesty," Thomas went on, moving to both drive the lesson home and discredit, as much as he could, his rival. Because that was, apparently, what Sir Thomas More was: Cromwell's rival for the preeminent place in Clara Tyrell's life. Cromwell affected her and influenced her... well, so too did More. And Cromwell wanted nothing more than to negate those affects and that influence in order to make way for his own. "You met him when you were a girl, yes?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Clara nodded. "He does not seem to have noticed that you have grown up since then, and become a woman. It was kind of him to worry about you, and put you on your guard for some of the more subtle snares and traps at court, but he seems to have a rather low opinion of your integrity and little respect for your strength if he thinks you would so easily disregard your principles." He ignored the fact that he himself was and had been slowly convincing her to do that very thing—but not in huge, jarring leaps and falls like the scenarios he'd put forth earlier, but rather with small, subtle steps and twists. "He doesn't see you like I do," he added lowly.

Clara rolled her head over onto her shoulder to look at him—was she so affected by the brandy already?—and her dark eyes were half-lidded and unconsciously seductive in the flickering firelight. "How do you see me, Thomas?" she asked softly.

Thomas threw back the rest of his brandy in order to wet his suddenly-dry mouth, and licked his lips reflexively as the look in her eye and the tone of her voice went straight to his groin. Clara's eyelashes fluttered a little as she shivered, and the air around them seemed to grow even more heated and tense. "As a young lioness, not yet grown into her power," he replied huskily.

"Sir Thomas calls me a mouse," Clara murmured, almost to herself.

"Because he looks at you without seeing you," Thomas said swiftly, annoyed that More was intruding on this moment—ruining the moment, for that matter. Although at least the mention of the other man had helped him rein in his galloping lust; he'd been moments from reaching out and pulling Clara out of her chair and into his lap. "I see you. I see your strength, and your cleverness, and all the potential that's just burning under your skin. You're like an uncut gemstone, Clara, and I want to see you sparkle."

"Sometimes I think you're the only man who does see me," Clara remarked hazily, tipping her glass back and draining the last of the brandy. Which, Thomas allowed, might explain her current behaviour. "I'm not a mouse. You don't call me a mouse."

"You're not a mouse," he concurred, hiding his amusement. "I fail to understand how anyone who knows you could possibly think that an apt comparison. You have far too much fighting spirit to be a mouse."

"That's why I like you," Clara informed him languorously. "Well, one of the reasons. I like you for lots of things. And I like your hair. And your eyes. And this little cleft, right here," she said, reaching out to press her finger to the cleft in his chin. She stroked his skin lightly with a hazy, dreamy smile on her face before pulling away and lifting her goblet. "May I have some more brandy?"

Thomas wondered briefly if giving her more alcohol was a good idea; she was already, it seemed, quite drunk. Then he reasoned that she was a grown woman, and if she wanted more brandy she could have it. Trying to restrain her might undermine the argument he'd built against Sir Thomas, that More thought of her as a child while Cromwell saw her as a woman.

Besides, he'd give her just about anything she asked to get her to touch him again.

He reached out for the cup. "Of course."

Within a half an hour, they were both quite drunk—Clara only slightly more so than Thomas, due to the fact that she was smaller and a less experienced drinker. Thomas, however, had been throwing back brandy on an empty stomach, trying to distract himself from how giggly and touchy Clara got while inebriated, and trying to ignore the signals—nay, the invitations—she was sending him as plain as day.

At the moment, they were both sprawled on the floor in front of the chairs as Thomas tried to explain how to discern the quality of Turkish carpets. He had flipped the edge of the rug back up and laid it across his knee, and was running his fingers along the weave and knots of the back. Clara sat next to him, her legs tucked up under her skirts, propping herself up with her left hand, which was nearly touching his leg. "...see, the density of the knots?" he was saying. "And the perfection of the weave, and how even it is. You can feel the quality of a good carpet."

He glanced over at Clara to discover that she was staring fixedly at his hands with slightly parted lips. Once she realised that he'd stopped talking, she glanced up to meet his eyes; even through the alcohol-induced haze, Thomas could read the naked desire within them. But instead of blushing and looking away, as she usually did when he caught her staring at him, Clara just smiled languidly and reached out to trail her fingers down the weft of the carpet. "Show me," she entreated slowly. "Show me how to feel it."

By God, did she even realise how she sounded? Thomas swallowed around a suddenly dry mouth and tried to discreetly shift to alleviate the increasing pressure in his breeches as he reached out to cover Clara's hand with his own, which pressed his arm against hers, and stroked once more along the weave of the carpet beneath them, guiding her fingers slowly over the knots.

It would take a better man than he to refuse what was being so openly (if implicitly) offered.

"There," he said, and noted in a part of his mind that hadn't melted from a combination of alcohol and lust that his voice had gone low and husky, and that it made Clara shiver against him. "Feel the tightness of the knots, and how closely they are strung together."

When Clara spoke, her voice was breathless. "I feel it," she whispered, turning her face towards his. Her eyes were nearly black, and they flicked down to his mouth as she swayed closer. He could almost feel her breath on her lips.

Thomas wasn't a saint. He could only take so much, and Clara had finally pushed him to the edge of his self-control. So he reached out and slid the hand that wasn't covering Clara's hand behind her neck, pulled her towards him, and kissed her.

It was gentle and slow at first—just a simple, gentle, closed-mouth kiss which soothed the tension between them for a moment. Thomas was trying not to spook her, after all, even though he'd found himself unable to totally hold himself apart from her. Her lips were soft, and slid over his own like silk, and her skin was warm under his hand.

She pulled back for a moment, and Thomas was worried for a moment that he'd pushed things too far, and she was going to startle and push him away and that would be the end of their friendship and any hopes he had of a closer association (and also possibly his own death from stymied lust). But no, she sighed against his mouth and whispered, "Thomas..." so close that her lips brushed against his again, which led into another kiss, and then another, and another as Clara melted into his arms.

It didn't take long before their kisses grew more fevered and intense—especially because Thomas soon realised that Clara was not going to startle and run, and in fact seemed to want to climb right into his lap. Their positions soon became uncomfortable, though, and without breaking the kiss Thomas manoeuvred Clara back to recline on the rug. Meanwhile, Clara wound her arms around his neck and pulled him with her, raking her fingers through his hair and lightly scraping her nails across his scalp. That made Thomas pull away from the kiss with a hiss, dropping his forehead into the crook of her neck and grinding his hips into her leg for a moment. God in heaven, he wanted her—want, want, want.

Clara's breathing hitched, her fingers tightening in his curls as she arched up against him. She tugged slightly, and Thomas let her pull his head back up to hers, and she once again pressed her lips to his own. He ran his hands through her hair, knocking her hood askew; he tugged it irritably away and threw it over his shoulder, cradling her head in his hands as he slanted his mouth over hers, kissing her hard. She was taking the initiative now, and Thomas felt free to let loose. Clara was the first woman he'd touched in nearly two years, but more specifically this was Clara, and he'd been lusting after her for months.

Before, he'd been half on top of her, with the rest of him beside her on the rug; now, he moved to align their bodies and settled himself between her legs, pinning her down onto the rug. Clara spread her knees, welcoming him into the cradle of her thighs, and hooked her ankle around his, running it up his calf even as her hands began to wander across his shoulders. One fluttered to the collar of his shirt and slipped under the fabric to touch his skin; the other slid around to stoke his back.

Thomas reached back and grabbed Clara's right leg, lifted it and hooking it up around his waist, sliding his hand up from her ankle and pushing the black velvet of her skirt along as he did so. Her leg was firm and smooth and graceful, and as his hand crept higher Clara pulled away from his lips and tilted her head back with a hungry sigh. He could feel her fingernails digging into his back as she sighed, "Thomas," once more, before moving to meet his eyes. Hers were black with desire and her lips were swollen and red from their heated kisses, and she held his gaze as her other hand slid out of his collar and reached to undo the buttons on his doublet.

That deliberate movement and the look in her dark eyes was enough to send his lust burning to even more intense heights. She wanted him. She wanted him as much as he did her. At this point, Thomas felt hard enough to pound nails, and he ground himself into Clara, letting her feel just how much he wanted her. This drew a deep, throaty groan from her lips as her head lolled back, and she raked her nails up his back as her other hand fumbled with his buttons. It was a good thing he was still clothed; her nails probably could've drawn blood.

Thomas took the opportunity to bend down and bury his face in the crook of her neck, nipping at her pale skin as he began to rock his hips into hers in a prelude of what was to come. Clara abandoned the buttons on his doublet and scrabbled at his shoulders, trying to pull him even closer as she arched and writhed against him, hooking her ankles behind his back. Her skirts slid higher up her thighs, and Thomas moved his right hand down to help them further out of his way, bunching them up around her waist. And one of Clara's hand's slid up to tangle in the curls at the nape of his neck, while the other... the other flitted down and reached for the laces of his breeches...

And then suddenly, everything ground to a screeching halt.

He would suppose, later, that it was a sort of compliment—he'd so distracted Clara that she hadn't even noticed the approaching footsteps from their intaglio before the fireplace. But they both noticed when the door to the closet flew open, and Ralph Sadler strolled in, a missive in hand, saying, "Master, you've got a letter from—" But he stopped short when he registered the scene he'd just intruded on, his eyes going wide and his mouth dropping open in shock.

Clara froze, and Thomas was suddenly very sober, and aware of just what this looked like. But before he could say anything, or order Ralph out of the room, or take any actions to control the potential damage of his and Clara's behaviour, Clara moved first.

She planted her hands on his chest and shoved him off. Thomas hit the floor with a grunt, and before he'd even got his breath back Clara had shoved her skirts down and hoisted herself up off the rug. The minute her feet were planted on the rug, she was running, bolting swiftly past Ralph. She was also clearly still affected by the brandy, since Thomas could actually hear her footsteps as she rushed down the stairs.

With a muttered oath, Thomas pushed himself upright and went after her. She was likely intending to flee the house, but it was extremely late, extremely cold, and she was extremely drunk; it wasn't safe for her to be running about London at this hour... especially because she'd left her mantle upstairs. "Clara!" he called as he began to clumsily descend the stairs, feeling his knees a little weaker for the wear due to all the brandy he'd consumed. "Clara, wait!"

His only answer was the sound of the slamming door.

Thomas swore under his breath. Well, that had gone straight to hell, hadn't it? It was a baffling reversal; not five minutes ago, he'd been on the top of his game. He'd been entangled with a warm and willing Clara, ready to have her laid out on the Turkish rug, and now he was standing alone in the chilly hall of his house, his member aching from unfulfilled arousal and the woman herself vanished into the winter night.

The sound of someone clearing their throat behind him drew his attention, and Thomas turned to see a red-faced Ralph standing awkwardly at the foot of the stairs. "Er... master. Sorry?" he offered apologetically.

Thomas heaved a sigh and raked his hands through his hair. "God damn it, Ralph."

* * *

**A/N part deux:** You have no idea how hard it was for me to write the last few pages. I have absolutely no talent for writing... er, physical intimacy. But yes, now the UST is a little less U. Well no, wait, I take that back; it's still pretty U, but at least they're admitting that it's there. But seriously, that last scene there kicked my ass.

_Historical notes: _This is just something I threw in for kicks and giggles: John Wisdom actually did get hauled up in front of the College of Physicians, but it was later, in the 1540's. Wisdom was a member of the Painter-Stainer's Company, and got called on the carpet because (get this) he (and his son, Gregory) were practising medicine without being either a surgeon or a physician. They'd been taking on patients and treating them for syphilis without technically being allowed to, which was why they got sued by the real doctors. That's right: in Tudor London, you could go to a painter for a treatment for VD. Woot. But yeah, I'd read this neat book about the criminal underworld in Tudor England, and that guy was mentioned, so I just had to throw him in.

Also, credit goes to WhenThePawn84 for her characterisation of Cromwell as an alert fox. I didn't come up with that turn of phrase, but it was so apropos that I had to borrow it. But I'm giving credit where credit is due. :D

Anyway, please review! Seriously, I'm having a hell of a time with writer's block, and I could use some reviews to spur me on. Please?


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** I am so sorry, everyone. Writer's block flogged me like a recalcitrant horse. All of a sudden, inspiration just dried up and I couldn't write anything.

And then I got let go from the store I worked at, and then I had to look for a new job, and then I got a new job (and a new car, because a four-hour bus/bike commute when you're not even ten miles away is just ridiculous), and then my estranged father began to crawl out of the woodwork (not that he talked to *me*, mind you; just my brother) thus resurrecting a bunch of old issues, and then my mother found out she has thyroid cancer, and then she had surgery, and then apparently my boss thought I was competent enough that she started going away and leaving the whole unit under my management, which was new and stressful... it's been a busy couple of months.

But there have been some good bits. The aforementioned new car, for one, which means I have an actual social life now because I can go places. Also, Mercury Grey made me an awesome couple of mixes of Renaissance music (thanks, Merc!) which definitely helped prod ye olde muse off its arse, where it wanted to remain and obsess over the BBC's _Sherlock_.

So yes. Sorry for the wait; seriously, this thing was torturous to write.

* * *

**Chapter 11:**

_19 February, 1529_

It had been a solid week since Thomas Cromwell had laid eyes on Clara Tyrell. She was obviously avoiding him, using every skill she knew to do so—including more than a few he'd taught her himself. Thomas would've been proud... except he was desperate to see her again.

Had he ruined everything? Was she going to flee back to Leicestershire, and give up all hope of going to court? Or was she going to go to court as planned, but refuse to have anything to do with him? Had his raging libido lost him his potential agent in the Queen's household, and his dear friend? Or would it be, or his dear friend? Had he sprung the trap too soon, and startled his quarry away? Or was this but a stumble, a small hitch in an otherwise untangled string? Thomas knew Clara felt something for him; was it that which frightened her? Or was it that which would bring her back? Would she come back to him if he left her alone to think things out? Or would she just flee faster? The uncertainty was infuriating; if he could just see her, look into her eyes and watch her hands and her shoulders move, he would know better how to act.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem as though Clara was willing to end their standoff any time soon. And worse, she knew enough of his schedule and his habits to drag this on endlessly—to dance just out of his reach, to see his family but not him (because she was still showing up for Alice and Joan's lessons, though she'd moved them earlier in the day so that she was long gone by the time he returned home from court). It looked like he was going to have to be the one to break this deadlock, face the awkwardness, apologise if need be, and mend things.

Besides, Clara had left her hood and her mantle at his house, and he ought to return them to her.

Before he could contrive a way to get away from court this afternoon and see if he couldn't corner Clara at Austin Friars, the King summoned him to the audience chamber that afternoon, pulling him from his papers and his plots. Cromwell went immediately, putting everything else out of his mind. If he could prove himself a useful and diligent servant to His Majesty, he would rise, and if he rose, he could not only do more for the cause of the Reformed Religion, but perhaps Clara might...

_No_, he reminded himself. _Focus on His Majesty_.

Cromwell entered the audience chamber from the side door and approached the King, who was standing near the pillar which suspended his cloth of estate above his throne. He sketched a quick bow, though His Majesty was not looking in his direction. "Majesty," he said quietly, announcing his presence.

Henry turned to approach him from the other side of the dais, and his blue eyes were burning. He was in a fine temper, Cromwell could see that instantly. Had there been another setback with the legatine court? Campeggio had been in the country for nearly five months, and still nothing was happening; had the King lost his patience? Had the Queen done something—or had Lady Anne? Either way, it looked like His Majesty was fit to start something on fire from the power of his gaze alone.

"I want you to go to Rome, Master Cromwell," the King said quietly, though his voice was intense. "I want you to force his fucking Holiness into submission, if necessary by telling him if he does not grant my fucking annulment, then England will withdraw its submission to Rome and I will withdraw my allegiance to him." Henry punctuated this extraordinary command with a rigid finger as he pointed it directly into Cromwell's face, conveying the seriousness of his wishes—as if his virulent language wasn't indication enough. "And make sure he knows this is no idle threat. I mean it, and I will do it if he does not satisfy me."

Cromwell kept his face arranged into his thoughtful court expression as he nodded and bowed in acquiescence. No matter how outlandish the King's commands seemed and how utterly impossible their achievement seemed, he would do nothing to imply the contents of his inner thoughts. He'd smile and nod, figuratively, and do his very best. That was what Wolsey had done, and therefore what Cromwell would do as well.

He backed away from the King and left the chamber, then, as His Majesty shouted for someone to, "Send in the Duke of Suffolk!" Cromwell's mind was already whirling as he passed through other galleries on his way back to the closet. Today was Friday, and the day was already half over. If he could manage to get his business sorted by the end of today, he could be on the road tomorrow, and cross the channel on Sunday or Monday, depending on the weather.

Breezing through the doors into Master Secretary's closet, Cromwell called, "Ralph!" Out of the sea of black-clad clerks, Ralph's gingery head popped up. Cromwell beckoned him over as he made a beeline for his desk.

"Yes, Master Cromwell?" Ralph asked, coming up beside him. Thankfully, it hadn't taken Ralph very long to overcome his mortification, and he'd stopped blushing at the sight of him within three days. Cromwell imagined it had been terribly embarrassing for Ralph to walk in on his master _in flagrante delicto_ with a lady, though it couldn't compare to the embarrassment Cromwell himself was feeling, and his likely could not compare to what poor Clara must be suffering. At any rate, Ralph had been composed and professional enough to soldier on despite his mortification, and he'd shed that soon enough.

"The King is sending me to Rome," Cromwell explained without preamble. "I mean to leave Monday, at the very latest. I'm leaving you in charge here." Ralph was usually his deputy in these matters, though he'd never actually left the lad in charge of his secretarial duties while he was out of the country. Although "lad" might be a misnomer at this point; Ralph was 22, and hardly a boy. Untested at court, perhaps, but not a boy. But he knew Ralph was also loyal and intelligent and would acquit himself well. "I'll leave Avery and Richard in charge of matters at the house. Between the three of you, everything should be fine while I'm away."

As he sorted his papers and sat down at his desk to write letters, Cromwell gave further orders to Ralph, about how he was to handle things in his absence, and about using the next day or so to muster as much cash as they possibly could. He knew, having spent plenty of time in Rome, that if King Henry wanted results it was going to take money. Lots of money. Ideally, tangible money; most Princes of the Church were generally short on cash, and were even more open to bribes when the gold was actually at hand. Furthermore, Cromwell still had contacts in the banks down in Italy, so there was another avenue of possible funds, but it was better to arrive with plenty of cash and use the banks to supplement. Especially because the bankers were a little more willing to front money when you proved yourself less of a credit risk.

Cromwell finished his litany to a much smaller audience; most of his clerks had been sent out to a variety of locations as he gave his orders—this one to the Exchange, that one to the Frescobaldi bank, this one to Bonvisi's house. Only he and Ralph and one young lad were left, and he finally turned to the last and youngest of his clerks. "You, Master Bedell, must go to my house in Shoreditch. There is a parcel in my privy closet, of a black woollen and grey rabbit fur mantle and a lady's French hood. I need you to fetch it back here as soon as may be," he finished.

Master Bedell, having received his orders, nodded and immediately dashed off, leaving Cromwell and Ralph alone in the closet. Cromwell turned back to his papers, wanting to get everything in order before he left, but Ralph just stood in awkward silence for a moment, fidgeting slightly. When Cromwell glanced back up at him, he found that the young man's ears had gone red. "Lady Tyrell's things?" Ralph surmised.

"She left her mantle and her hood at the house last week," Cromwell replied repressively. He didn't want to know what else Ralph thought Clara left behind—not if it was turning his ears that colour. "And I need to speak with her before I depart. I mean to go to Lord Sedley's house tonight, after I leave court, and it would be more convenient if I had her things with me." Hopefully, it would convince Clara to see him, even if she otherwise intended to balk.

Ralph said nothing else and returned to his papers, his ears still red. The rest of the afternoon was spent preparing for Cromwell's absence from Whitehall and from England for the next foreseeable future. And thankfully, before he left for the day Bedell returned from Shoreditch with Clara's cloak and her hood in tow. Now he had a good reason to seek her out... and, in a way, destroy his anonymity. Because if he meant to seek Clara out in her territory, he was going to be revealing himself to her family—to the amiable if not terribly intelligent Benedict Gage, to the beautiful and indiscreet Lady Agnes, to the surly spinster Marion. They would know that Clara was keeping time with Thomas Cromwell, and since they didn't seem to be a discreet lot by and large, sooner or later other people would know as well. But what other choice did he have?

This wasn't a decision he'd made lightly. Cromwell knew that coming clean to Clara's family and friends might eventually reveal the connection between himself and Lady Tyrell to the Boleyn family and possibly the rest of Whitehall as well. But if he did not speak to Clara now, he wouldn't be able to talk to her until he returned from Rome, and who knew how long that would be? No, he needed to settle things with her now, today. He needed to know if he could count on her to keep her promises—would she still agree to spy for him at court? Would she continue to tutor Alice and Joan in household management (because that meant he could depart knowing his household would be taken care of while he was away without having to shove the whole thing off on someone else)? And perhaps, most important, would she still be his friend? Getting the answers to these questions were well worth a little bit of secrecy. Hopefully, he and Clara could convince her family members to be discreet. If not... well, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

And if Thomas Boleyn did discover his extracurricular friendship... well, at least Cromwell would be out of the country for it.

As Cromwell passed through the galleries, he was waylaid by the very man he'd been thinking of. _Speak of the devil and he doth appear_, he thought wryly as a flash of silver hair caught his eye. Once Boleyn had his attention, he beckoned, and Cromwell altered his steps to move towards where Lord Rochford stood by the windows. "Your Excellency," he greeted respectfully with a bow, keeping Clara's effects tucked discreetly under his arm.

"Master Cromwell," Boleyn replied with a smooth smile. "I hear you are to go to Rome."

News certainly travelled fast. Then again, Cromwell allowed, this was a matter in which Boleyn had a personal stake, and the other Thomas probably had more than a few paid ears listening for any developments. "Indeed, my Lord. His Majesty has dispatched me to hurry things along as best I can with the Curia. I mean to depart tomorrow."

"You waste no time," Boleyn noted, approval warming his glacial blue eyes.

"We all wish for a speedy, favourable resolution, Lord Rochford," Cromwell returned. "I am, as always, happy to contribute however I may in the achievement of His Majesty's desires." Hopefully that was a plain enough declaration of his partisanship with the Boleyn cause.

Judging by the pleased expression creeping across Boleyn's face, he heard what Cromwell wasn't saying. "I wish you every success," the viscount said, with as much warmth as he was capable of. "Upon your return, you must come to dine with the family."

Cromwell allowed his face to slide into an expression of surprised pleasure—and indeed, he was both surprised that he was being offered such acceptance by the head of the Boleyn family (as he was, still, technically one of Wolsey's men... unless Lord Rochford was looking to poach on the Cardinal's territory, which was not unlikely, he supposed) and pleased that the family was indeed, after all his efforts, taking notice of him. Their support could only do good for his career. "I will of course call upon your Lordship upon my return to England, and I thank you for your most gracious invitation," he replied humbly.

Boleyn smiled, though he still could not hide the chilly, greedy gleam in his eyes, and clapped a hand to Cromwell's shoulder. "If there is anything you require, Master Secretary, I hope you will not hesitate to ask. We are all working towards a common goal, are we not?" he commented leadingly.

"We are indeed," Cromwell confirmed, bowing his head in acquiescence.

Thus assured of Cromwell's loyalty, Boleyn gave the taller man's shoulder a slight shake, for emphasis of his goodwill, and then began to lead him out of the gallery towards the gate. _A bit eager are we, Lord Rochford?_ Cromwell thought amusedly. The man was doing everything but throwing him into the saddle himself. "How go your preparations?" Boleyn inquired. He cast his icy blue eyes down to the black wool held under Cromwell's arm. "Packing already?"

An idea flickered into being inside Cromwell's mind. Perhaps he might be able to do some pre-emptive damage control, and remove Clara from Thomas Boleyn's sights.

Now, to find a way to imply "client" without implying "mistress".

"No, my Lord, these are not mine," he explained with a lopsided smile, shifting his burden enough to reveal that it contained a lady's French hood, trimmed with jet beads. The revelation drew an answering smile from Boleyn. "A friend left them at my house last week," he added, hitting the word 'friend' with enough emphasis to indicate that the person in question was not an ordinary companion. "I felt I had better return them before I leave for Rome."

"A friend, Master Secretary?" Boleyn repeated as the two men passed out of the gallery into a quieter hallway, with an insinuating twist to his silken voice which informed Cromwell clearly that, sure enough, Boleyn had taken "friend" to mean "mistress". It was probably the hood which had done it, highlighting the fact that Secretary Cromwell, already getting a reputation for being dead from the neck down, was walking around with women's accoutrements.

"Yes, your Lordship. A very clever, useful friend," Cromwell emphasised, trying to carry across the impression that this woman was not a mistress but in fact a possible asset, lowering his voice but otherwise making no other sign that he and Boleyn were discussing anything delicate. People would be curious enough to see the two of them together; had he and Lord Rochford stopped and bent their heads together and whispered, that would only fuel the fires of speculation. Better to pretend that they were only talking about commonplace concerns.

Boleyn made an interested humming sound. "Anyone I ought to know?" he asked, deliberately casual.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Cromwell replied calmly as they emerged from the hallway and moved towards the door which would take him down to the quays and thence to Whitefriars in which district was located the house of Lord Sedley. "Lady Clara Tyrell."

It took Boleyn a few moments to place the name, but once he did his face shaded into an incredulous expression. "Lady Tyrell? George Spencer's Lady Tyrell?" he demanded.

It annoyed him to hear Clara described as someone else's Lady Tyrell, let alone George Spencer's. "The same," Cromwell confirmed evenly, hiding his annoyance with Boleyn's descriptors and the inward trepidation he couldn't stop feeling, despite his confidence in his own plans and in his understanding of Thomas Boleyn's character. He was well aware that this revelation was something of a gamble, but he thought the benefits of disclosure would be worth it. That is, if he could get that dangerous expression off Lord Rochford's face. "Her quarrel was solely with Master Spencer, and never with your family," he was quick to assure. "Indeed, she is quite eager to prove herself... useful."

That was how Lord Rochford looked at the people around him, after all—even his own children. To Thomas Boleyn, people were useful, obstacles, or nothing. Perhaps with repetition, the idea would sink in that Clara was not a threat or an obstacle, and could in fact be a resource... and above all, that she was not Thomas Cromwell's mistress.

Albeit not through lack of trying.

"Is she?" Boleyn commented coolly. "I suppose she was fair clever for such a mousey little thing." His tone of voice implied he thought Cromwell was out of his mind for having anything to do with her.

"I have high hopes for the lady," Cromwell returned, just as studiously casual. "She has very keen ears—" and may no one but himself ever be aware of just how keen; the best weapons were the ones your enemies were unaware you had, "a tendency towards reticence, and has already proven herself full willing to take direction." Let Boleyn believe that meant Cromwell was able to control Clara, able to direct her preferences and opinions and essentially have her under his thumb. To an extent, he admitted inwardly, that was all very true. Hopefully it would pacify Rochford enough to leave Clara alone. "Leave her to me, your Excellency. I have every faith she will be an asset to our cause."

Boleyn looked at him for a long moment, then glanced down at the hood and cloak tucked under his arm. Then he gave a Gallic shrug and waved a hand. "Upon your head be it, Master Secretary," he dismissed. "She is your friend." _And I will let __you__ handle her_, went unsaid, but still heard by both. "I suppose she can't do much harm, at any rate."

"Thank you, my Lord," Cromwell murmured, hiding every hint of his true feelings—his amusement at the other man's arrogance, his relief that the encounter had gone as well as he planned, his humour-tinged exasperation that the entire world seemed to undervalue Clara and his lingering annoyance that Boleyn had described her as belonging to someone else. Still, he was perfectly content that Boleyn and his family should dismiss Lady Tyrell as a nonentity. In fact, he would be pleased as punch if the entire court followed suit. At least that would be safe, and provide Clara with the best opportunities for eavesdropping. No one would think to guard their tongues from the ears of a nobody.

Hmm... he should speak with her about that: about remaining an insignificant unknown whenever she joined the Queen's household.

He shared a few more unimportant pleasantries and subtle exchanges of information with Lord Rochford before the viscount bid him adieu and returned to the palace. Cromwell himself hailed a boat and had them row him downstream to Whitefriars. Thankfully, Lord Sedley's house was not too distant from the quays, and after a brisk ten minute's walk he was giving his name to the door-wardens and being shown into the hall of the house. There, he was welcomed by a very beautiful woman in a green damask gown whom he surmised to be Agnes Keriell, Lady Sedley. Lady Agnes, who was hosting Clara and cuckolding her husband with Clara's brother.

Looking at her now, Cromwell could understand a little better. Hugh Keriell, Lord Sedley, was a colourless, dull sort of man whose only redeeming feature, as far as Cromwell could tell, was his facility with numbers and his ability to organise. Whereas Sedley's wife was a vibrant young woman, perhaps a little older than Clara, and very beautiful, with golden hair, bright blue eyes, and a rosebud mouth set in a high-browed, well-proportioned face. It was no wonder, given what he knew of Lord Sedley, that his wife was seeking comfort elsewhere; nor was it any wonder, now that he'd seen the lady in question, that a young man such as the handsome Benedict Gage had been enchanted.

Lady Agnes opened her mouth and spoke to him, and her voice was low and sweet. "Master Secretary Cromwell, welcome to my home. To what do we owe the honour? Is there a message from Lord Sedley?" she inquired, flicking her cornflower-blue eyes down to the bundle under his arm. Her pink lips pressed themselves into a thin line, and he wagered such a message would have been highly unwelcome.

Thankfully, he had not come with a message from Lord Sedley. "No, my Lady," Cromwell replied calmly, and watched as Agnes' face relaxed. "I have actually come to speak with Lady Clara Tyrell. Is she within?"

Agnes' fair brow furrowed in confusion; ah, it seemed Clara had been able to keep entirely secret her association with him from even her hostess, if the lady's bewilderment was any indication. "Yes," she replied, "but why—"

The lady stopped suddenly, her blue eyes going wide as something apparently occurred to her. Her gaze moved up to his hair, then over to his ears, then down to his chin, then even further down to his legs, then back up to the bundle under his arm, and then returned to his face. Cromwell felt slightly uncomfortable with and bemused by her scrutiny, especially when she breathed a soft, "Oh," in a tone which implied she had just found the answer to something which had been puzzling her. Agnes swallowed, and, still wide-eyed, said weakly, "Yes... yes, Clara's here. Here, I'll..."

She trailed off and beckoned him to follow her, leading him out of the hall and into a quiet withdrawing room hung with tapestries which contained two other women. One was another beautiful blonde, though this one was stately and older than the vivacious, elfin Agnes, with stronger patrician features and darker, greenish-blue eyes; Cromwell guessed that this was Marion Tyrell, the sister-in-law who was apparently speaking with Clara again, if their presence in the same room was any indication. And there... there was a red-faced Clara, who was wiping ink off her hands and resolutely not meeting his eyes.

She was beautiful. Even wearing a drab, unfashionable black gown, lit by nothing more remarkable than pallid winter sunlight and surrounded by the far more showy beauties of Agnes Keriell and Marion Tyrell, Cromwell still thought she was beautiful—subtly, delicately, quietly beautiful, with her pale skin and her doe's eyes and her soft brown hair that had slipped through his fingers like raw silk. His heart gave an odd flutter at the sight of her, which he'd never felt before in either her presence or anyone else's, and something tense inside him relaxed.

That, however, worried him in a different way.

"Clara, Master Secretary Cromwell has come to see you," Agnes announced, her voice now insinuating and rather strident. Marion gave her sister a rather confused look, and Clara's face went even redder. Apparently, Clara had managed to keep secret everything about her association with him, and Cromwell's opinion of her abilities rose. What an agent she was going to be!

...Provided she was still amenable, of course, and their drunken antics of the week before hadn't ruined everything.

He wondered, inwardly, shoving his recollections of just what those antics had been and how much he'd enjoyed them away to the back of his mind, what would happen to them now if said antics had ruined everything. Would he lose her as an agent but keep her as a friend? Or vice versa—would she consent to spy for him, since she was rather deep in his debt at this point, but refuse thereafter to have anything to do with him personally? Cromwell honestly wasn't sure which outcome he would prefer. At this point, after all the effort he'd expended and everything he'd learned about her talents, the thought of Clara refusing to spy was extremely galling—a bit like losing vast sums of money on an investment which had previously seemed so promising. But at the same time, the thought of losing her friendship and her company and whatever the devil it was between them was like a knife to the chest. Which would be better for him—and, more importantly, for England?

It would probably be best for everyone that Clara continue as planned and use her ears in his service. One could not wage a campaign of any sort or mount effective counterattacks without information, and he didn't doubt that Clara had the potential to unearth quite a bit of it. Thus, if it came down to a choice of keeping her as an agent or a friend, he would have to put the needs of the cause above his personal preferences, and sacrifice his relationship with Lady Tyrell.

Cromwell pretended the thought didn't hurt.

Of course, it was entirely possible that he was putting the cart before the horse and that no such choice would be required. But Cardinal Wolsey—still technically his patron, and a man he did respect despite his desire to ally with the Boleyns, who were the Cardinal's sworn enemies—did always say that he didn't think anything, but imagined everything. Cromwell thought it was a good philosophy; it left a man prepared for anything and everything that could happen. And at the moment it allowed him a bit of distance from this situation, in which Clara was once again cringing away from him.

"I wanted to return these to you," Cromwell said quietly, coming forth to set her mantle and her hood down on the table, upon which was a portable desk and a sheaf of papers—Clara's, he'd wager, judging by the tiny sketches which covered the margins. And since Clara's discomfort was practically a physical presence in the room with them, Cromwell came no closer, and remained on the other side of the table. She still wasn't looking at him, and kept her gaze locked on the table. Cromwell, though, was aware of Marion's sudden comprehension of what he'd just delivered; she gasped, and dropped her sewing. But he kept the majority of his attention on Clara, wishing she would just look at him. "And inform you that I will be leaving England tomorrow."

Clara sucked in a quiet breath and jerked her head up, finally meeting his gaze; her dark eyes were panicked, and her expression was one of deep distress. "No! But why? I... I... this isn't... Thomas, I..." she stammered. She stopped, and took a deep breath, and asked in a tiny, unhappy voice, her dark eyes beginning to shine with tears, "Is it because of me?"

Thomas shook his head and clenched his hands together inside his jacket, lest he reach out for her. He'd settled this with himself on the boat ride here: no more touching Clara, no matter how much he might want to. The next time they touched, they'd both be sober, and Clara would have to initiate it. And he had rather more hope for that latter condition now than he did before, if her obvious unhappiness at the thought of his absence was any indication.

Still, he hated the thought that he'd made Clara cry—again—and his voice was very gentle as he replied, "No, of course not. This has nothing to do with you. His Majesty is sending me to Rome to treat with the Pope, and I must leave as soon as can be." Thomas glanced over at Agnes and Marion, who were both watching them avidly; Agnes with an expression of gleeful curiosity and Marion with her lovely features shaded with stark horror. He cleared his throat and turned back to Clara. "Perhaps we might speak in private?" he suggested.

"Oh, we'll leave you alone!" Agnes immediately offered, giving Clara a bright smile and dragging a protesting Marion out after her.

Or rather, trying. Marion dug in her heels and resisted. "Clara, what's going on?" she demanded. "Who is this man?"

Clara bit her lower lip and ducked her head for a moment, and then looked up to meet her sister's eyes. "This is Thomas Cromwell, the king's secretary, and my very dear friend," she replied honestly.

Something inside Thomas' chest relaxed when Clara gave him the label of friend, while something simultaneously clenched in his gut. Yes, he was Clara's "dear friend", but that was apparently it. But he ignored the ache, and turned to give a faint, polite smile to Mistress Tyrell. "Lady Clara has been tutoring my nieces in household management," he added, which would hopefully establish his _bona fides_ with the ladies.

He didn't expect Clara's cringe, or the way Marion's mouth fell open, or Agnes' wide-eyed exclamation of, "That's you?"

Thomas turned back to Clara, who had hunched her shoulders and gone pink-cheeked again. She murmured guiltily, almost too quiet for him to hear, "I might have implied there was a family whose daughters I was tutoring, and also a courtier who was helping me... um, learn the ropes, and I never gave names for either."

"My apologies," he whispered back, knowing she'd hear him.

"This is why I don't ever lie," Clara muttered.

Personally, Thomas thought it was more a question of communication and the fact that the two of them had not coordinated their stories. This was something he'd have to remedy in the future.

Before he could say anything else to ameliorate the situation or dig himself and Clara deeper, the lady herself spoke up. "Marion, please," Clara entreated. "I'll explain later..." she added tentatively, glancing at him questioningly. Thomas nodded quickly—Clara might as well come clean, since he'd apparently done most of the work for her already—and she moved her eyes back to her sister, saying much more firmly, "I'll explain later, I promise I will... but for now, can you please let us have some privacy?"

Marion didn't look at all happy with the situation, but she finally gave in and let Agnes pull her out of the withdrawing room. But she was eyeing him suspiciously the whole time, and Thomas was slightly perplexed as to why she seemed so belligerent. But he dismissed it as unimportant, and turned back to Clara, who had one hand fisted in her black skirts while the other was cupping her elbow. She bit her lip as the door shut behind her friends, and looking nervously up at him through her lashes.

Clara took a deep breath and spoke. "So, you're to go to Rome? How... how long will you be away?" she inquired haltingly.

"I know not," Thomas replied. "The King is sending me to hurry things along with the Pope, and that is not dependant on time. I could be away for five weeks or five months. It all depends on what the situation in Rome looks like at the time..." Would the church still be resentful of the Emperor and his actions and thus be willing to act in ways which would anger him, or would they be fearful of imperial proximity and power and therefore be unwilling to act against the Emperor's desires? "...or when it may please His Majesty to recall me."

He took pleasure in the slightly perturbed expression that passed across Clara's face—evidence that she would miss him while he was away, and that their relationship (their friendship, their patron-client give-and-take, their budding romance or whatever it was between them) had not crumbled under the weight of their lust for one another? Proof that he could keep her as his agent and his friend?

"I..." Clara began, but then she stopped and sighed, near-silently; only because Thomas was watching her shoulders move was he aware of the sigh at all. "You... I... erm, when..." she stammered, folding even more into herself and hunching her shoulders until they were nearly up around her ears.

It was like they'd been transported back to the very beginning, right after he'd made her cry, when she was skittish and mousey and frightened of him. He looked at her for a long moment, remembering the way she vowed to repay Spencer for his behaviour, how she'd shouted—actually shouted—at her brother after he questioned her resolve to keep her son away from her father, her anger in the moonlight that night when he taught her to throw a punch, the reason he'd even needed to teach her such a lesson at all... where did the lioness go?

"Should I apologise?" Thomas asked quietly, wondering if that was the source of all this strife and it putting it behind them (however much he didn't want to) was the best way to make Clara at ease with him again. "Is that what you... want?"

Two things surprised him as he spoke, his speech slowing as his brain ground to a halt. Clara surprised him when she shook her head no (and if she hunched her shoulders any further her neck was going to vanish into them). And he surprised himself when he realised something: he didn't know what he wanted, either.

Where was he going with this, anyway?

Thomas changed directions inside his head, staring at a fidgeting Clara as his mind spun away down a different beam on the abacus. What was his ultimate goal in regards to this woman? Obviously, he wanted her as his agent at court. That was non-negotiable; no matter what, Master Secretary Cromwell wanted Lady Tyrell as his spy in the King's court. But that wasn't all Thomas wanted from Clara.

But now his problem was that Thomas didn't have a clear idea of what "that wasn't all" entailed... nor how to get whatever it turned out to be.

As his mind clicked over his current issues, Clara looked up at him with a frown and brought his calculations to a halt. Her face was serious, and as he looked into her dark eyes he could see the lioness re-emerging from underneath the mouse. "Are you sorry?" she asked him quietly, earnestly. "They say true contrition is required for forgiveness. Are you truly sorry?"

That brought him up short for a moment. Thomas thought about how much he liked talking with her, and how much he liked being with her, even in those silent moments in his privy closet when he filed papers and Clara raided his bookshelves. He thought about how she was always surprising him, with an unexpected facet to her character or an unconsciously witty remark or a smile that said _I like you_ as clearly as if she'd spoken the words aloud. He thought about how it seemed he was the only person in Christendom who saw the ferocity and the potential and the intelligence behind her meekness. He remembered how his heart had stopped when she'd casually announced _I trust you_, and had proved her trust over and over again—even now, as she stood awkwardly before him, she was trusting him to know what he was about when she'd let him reveal her deceptions to her family. And he recalled how it felt to have her body under his, and how her lips tasted, and the way her skin had felt beneath his hands. Could he be truly sorry for any of these things, to the point of repenting of them and swearing that they would never happen again?

No. No, he couldn't. He was sorry that his actions had made things awkward... but he wasn't sorry for doing them.

And for some reason, as her brown eyes held his grey and she once again reminded him of nothing so much as a fierce little kitten, Thomas found he couldn't lie to her.

He smiled ruefully and shook his head, rubbing his hand over his mouth and chin. "No," he admitted with a sigh. "No, I'm not truly sorry."

Clara's lips curled up into an echoing rueful smile. "Neither am I," she admitted.

Thomas' heart gave a massive thump at her words, and most of the tension vanished from his shoulders. Nothing had been ruined—changed, perhaps, but not destroyed. It was a great relief to realise.

Clara sighed softly, and dropped her gaze as she reached up to rub at the left side of her neck. "So what do we do now?" she asked, after a long moment of silence.

Thomas took a deep breath, and then let it silently out through his nose. What were they going to do now? What could they do? Not a whole lot, was his conclusion—after all, he was being dispatched to Rome. Which, he realised suddenly, might actually be a boon. His departure from England would give both himself and Clara a measure of time and distance to sort out their thoughts, which he could not but think would be a good thing. He was far too tangled up in this woman now, and had no idea what his final objective was. Unlike a plain, desired conclusion such as _advance self at court_, or _ingratiate self with Boleyn family_, or _get a rate of interest less than 10%_, all he could think in this instance was _Clara, Clara, Clara_. The separation would hopefully allow him the mental distance to better assess his own needs and desires, and allow her to do the same.

"Nothing," he replied, feeling rather less unsettled now that he'd made a decision. "I go to Rome, you remain here. And while I'm away, we both do a measure of thinking about what it is we want to do next." Clara glanced curiously at him, and Thomas elaborated with a slightly crooked smile, "We've established that neither of us is sorry for the events of a week past."

At the oblique reference to their desperate and heated entanglement on the carpet in front of his fireplace, Clara's face flushed bright red again, and even Thomas could feel his ears growing slightly hot as the memories rose up between them like a ghost. But he soldiered on calmly, pointedly ignoring the twitch in his fingers as they recalled warm softness of Clara's skin and the way she'd sighed his name, "But neither of us is clear on what we would like it to mean... or what we want from each other, or want to be to each other. I propose that we use this separation as a time to clarify the issue so we... know how to act when I return."

Clara bit down on her lower lip and twisted her fingers around each other. "Thomas, you know I can't... there's nothing I can... Spencer and—" she murmured, sounding conflicted and unhappy.

"All I'm asking for is thought," Thomas interrupted gently. "Forget Spencer—there are ways around him, you know there are. Don't take him into your considerations at all. Only think about yourself and about me. You owe me that much," he added. Clara looked down, a little guilty, and he went on quickly, not wanting her to delve too deeply into those particular feelings of debt and obligation, "All I ask is that you consider the matter while I'm away, and know what you want from me when I return. I'll do the same, and when we reconvene... when I return, we will have a discussion about what we both want," he finished firmly.

"Can I talk to other people?" Clara asked, and he knew then that she'd accepted his plan and would indeed do some very serious contemplation whilst he was away. Especially if she meant to confide in her friends.

"I'd prefer if you continued to keep our association discreet, but as your hostess and your sister have just been... clued in, I have no complaints if you wish to discuss the matter with them," Thomas replied with a wry smile.

"And I will... whether I want to or not," Clara grumbled quietly, giving a fond glare towards the door, beyond which waited Agnes and Marion. "That, Thomas, you can apologise for."

The rusty chuckle that burbled past his lips surprised him; he didn't laugh much nowadays. It surprised Clara too, if her shocked expression was any judge, but it quickly melted into a shy, pleased smile as he apologised dryly, "I'm sorry for accidentally revealing our association to your friends, Clara."

And he was sorry—truly sorry, this time—for kicking his way through the careful little web of evasions and demurrals Clara had spun. It really had been a piece of art—no outright lies, but plenty of misleading statements which led people to make other assumptions. Thomas was extremely proud of her. This just proved what he already knew: that Clara was going to be an exceptional agent at court. Though he'd have to make a point of coordinating any further stories that needed to be spun so this wouldn't happen again.

"Why did you?" she wondered, tilting her head slightly to the side. "After all your emphasis on discretion, why sacrifice your anonymity now?"

She didn't seem upset, just curious, and thus he had no compunctions about answering her honestly. "I needed to see you before I left England," Thomas replied. "And I had a chat with Lord Rochford this afternoon."

Clara's smile drained right off her face, along with most of the colour in her cheeks.

"No, Clara, not like that," Thomas hurried to assure her. She looked as she had the day she'd passed out in his closet at Whitehall, and he didn't want to terrify her into a faint again. Though Thomas Boleyn would certainly be pleased if he knew how the mere mention of his name frightened the less powerful. "I simply informed him that you were not an enemy of the family and were in fact working under my direction in the pursuit of the king's desires. And he thereafter seemed content to leave the matter to me."

"What if he tells Spencer?" Clara demanded fearfully, her dark eyes huge in her white, frightened face.

"He won't," Thomas promised, and he was almost entirely certain that this would be the case. Boleyn had bigger fish to fry. "And in any case, there's nothing for him to tell. You've done nothing wrong, Clara." Clara's face went beet-red again, and she gave him a withering look that Thomas recognised from his own face. He was too happy that she had some colour back in her face to care overmuch that she was glowering at him; besides, the idea that Clara was mimicking his own expressions made him want to laugh again. "Well, nothing Lord Rochford is aware of," he amended with a crooked grin.

"I should hope not. It's bad enough that Ralph... well," Clara muttered, pressing her hands to her blushing cheeks. She bit her lip thoughtfully after a moment, and then sighed a little and relaxed, dropping her hands and giving him a shy smile. "Well, if you think it meet to inform Lord Rochford of our connection, I trust you."

Funny, every time she said that she trusted him or did something which showed plainly and earnestly how true her words were, how much she really did trust him, Thomas felt... too much. He felt like he was ten feet tall. He felt as though he could fly. He felt as though he'd swallowed a bellyful of snakes and they were all writhing around in his gut. He felt as though he was back on the front lines of a battlefield with a pike in his hands, terrified and thrilled and incandescently alive. He felt wonder that this woman existed and gratitude that she was here with him, and he wanted more than anything to keep her with him in whatever capacity for the rest of their lives. He felt incredibly humble that she gave of herself so honestly, and felt undeserving of the same. And now, after last week, after touching her and coming so close to just taking her, damn the consequences... now, he felt as though he was going to combust if he couldn't reach out and pull her into his arms and taste her lips with his, felt as though he was about to drown in her, felt as though he couldn't run fast and far enough from the turmoil she stirred up within him and yet felt as though leaving her, and the ease he felt when in her company (that is, when he wasn't aching to tear off her clothes and press her up against the nearest solid surface), would rip something crucial out of his chest and leave him bleeding on the floor.

And meanwhile, Clara was completely and utterly oblivious. "How should I treat him on the off-chance we encounter one another?" she asked, having absolutely no idea how deeply she touched him with her casual, throwaway words.

"Politely," Thomas suggested, mastering himself with the strength borne of long practise and shoving his emotions back under his mask. This was why he needed to go away. Clara affected him so strongly that it was doubtless for the best that they separate until he knew what he wanted from her and how to best go about getting whatever it turned out to be... and until the memory of her nails on his scalp faded a little, and he could be in her presence without a large part of him wanting to bend her over the nearest table, hike up her skirts, and have her. "Treat him as though nothing has changed," he advised, his voice showing no sign of his intense reaction. "Render unto him every deference and don't speak to him unless he addresses you first. I very much doubt that he'll do so."

Clara nodded seriously. "Shall I continue on with Alice and Joan as usual?" she inquired, changing the subject. Her fingers were twisting nervously around each other, and she was fidgeting slightly and giving him what, in her mind, probably passed for subtle looks from under her eyelashes. Was she aware of the tumult she'd caused within him? Or was she reacting to the tension that was still simmering between them, which the events of a week past had done nothing but increase?

"Yes," Thomas replied, clenching his fists so tightly he could feel his short, blunt nails digging into his palms. If she didn't stop looking at him like that... sending him that invitation... and in her friend's home! He needed to get them back to more indifferent business matters. "I'm leaving the household in their charge while I'm away, and if you wouldn't mind overseeing and making sure they manage I would be much obliged. Avery can look things over, after, but..."

The rest of their time together was spent discussing only business—or rather, Thomas giving Clara instructions on the things he wanted her to do while he was away. She was to keep on with her Spanish and her obfuscation practice (that is, lying practise, although in deference to Clara's sensibilities they didn't call it lying practise), and keep an eye on Alice and Joan as they made their first foray into managing the house almost entirely on their own. If she was granted a place in the Queen's household while he was away, she should take the time to accustom herself to life at court and keep her ears out for any relevant gossip—by which he meant anything relating to the divorce—and not let anyone know they were associated, or that she knew any Spanish at all. And if she heard anything, she was to bring it to Ralph, who would know which ears to carry it to.

"Will you write to me, while you're in Rome?" Clara asked quietly as he finished his instructions and announced that he needed to take his leave. She looked up and met his eyes, fidgeting a little and biting her lip, and though she was clearly nervous he could read her earnest desire to hear from him.

"I will write," Thomas promised. Even if he spent all his time trying to wrangle with cardinals, he was resolved to find the time to send some letters, even if they were brief and short, to Clara. He wouldn't be in Rome forever, after all, and he needed to keep himself at the forefront of her mind.

Now, though... now he needed to go, however little he wanted to. The light was fading, and there were still many things he needed to see to if he was still to leave tomorrow. He bowed to her, deeply, as though she were a countess or a duchess or a queen, wanting to assure her that he still regarded her with the utmost respect, before saying simply, "Farwell, Clara," and leaving.

He didn't look back.

* * *

Clara remained standing in the same spot, staring after him. Her heart was pounding as though she'd just been running full-bore through London, and it felt as though she'd swallowed a bellyful of butterflies. Once she could no longer hear his footsteps, she collapsed into a chair. Her hands were trembling and her cheeks were hot and even though she was shaky and discombobulated and a little frightened and a lot embarrassed she was still... well, she could still...

She released an inaudible groan and bent double, resting her forehead on her knees. What had she been thinking?

Well, no, no need to answer that. She hadn't been thinking; that was the whole problem. She'd been drunk off her head on a liquor much, much stronger than she'd expected, and everything had seemed like a good idea when she was that inebriated.

Even letting Thomas Cromwell hike up her skirts and swive her like some Southwark slut on the floor of his privy closet.

To make the whole thing worse... she'd wanted it. Clara was an intrinsically honest soul, after all, and tried to be as honest with herself as she was with everyone else. And the honest truth was this: if Ralph Sadler hadn't come into the closet when he did, Clara wouldn't have stopped. She would've spread her legs, unlaced his breeches, and had drunken sex with the King's Secretary on his extremely expensive Turkish rug, fuelled by their steadily increasing desire for one another and a tide of very good brandywine.

And the very, very worst was this: even though she was ashamed of herself and utterly embarrassed and could hardly stand to look at her best friend for fear of what he'd think of her... even with all that considered, she wasn't truly sorry for doing it. At least, not to the point of swearing never to do it again.

"I am never drinking brandy again," she muttered into her skirts, for at least the thousandth time in the past week. Not only did it inspire her to act stupidly, but the morning after was absolute hell.

After finally making it home in the wee hours of the morning, cursing herself for her behaviour and for her idiocy in both forgetting her mantle in Shoreditch and for bolting across London in the dregs of a very cold night, she'd fallen face-first into bed and slept until midday. Waking had not been at all pleasant; her head was pounding, her eyes were dry, it felt as though she had fabric stuffed into her mouth, and she felt as though she was going to vomit. And then she had.

Her retching had brought Marion running—she must have been keeping an ear out. Apparently Clara had looked as bad as she felt, since both Agnes and Marion coaxed her into remaining in bed for the rest of the day, and Marion had to be talked out of sending for an apothecary. Thankfully, by the next morning Clara felt fine, but she couldn't bring herself to face Thomas again. Not only was she ashamed of her behaviour—Clara had never imagined herself capable of such... such wantonness, and it was just the kind of thing that would get Arthur taken away from her—but Thomas was a regular visitor in her dreams at night—dreams which became searingly erotic and left her tangled and unfulfilled in the bedclothes come morning. How could she face him when she could still remember the taste of his mouth, the feel of his hair through her fingers, the weight of him between her legs? How could she face him, knowing the next time she did she'd only be thinking of picking up where they left off?

And then Thomas had just appeared today, here at Agnes' house, and it was like a kick in the chest (although some part of Clara was ecstatic that he'd come, that he'd chased her, that he felt she was worthwhile enough to pursue). She was mortified, and all of her fears came rushing back; she could barely look at him, not wanting to see the look on his face if he was angry or disappointed... had she ruined their friendship with her shameful behaviour?

But as it turned out... no. Nothing had been ruined. Changed, perhaps, but not ruined. Thomas wasn't appalled by her behaviour, and only desired her to clarify what she wanted from him. Not what she could have, but what she wanted—and those were two very different things. Clara supposed it was a good thing that he was leaving for Rome on the King's business, so that it would give her time to know her own mind without Thomas and his eyes and his hands and his curls flouncing around distracting her... but she'd missed him terribly the week she avoided him, and Lord only knew how long they would be apart now.

Thomas must have left the house; she could hear a pair of footsteps hurrying back towards the withdrawing room. Clara ground her teeth together and remained where she was, steeling herself for what was going to happen. Time to come clean and pay the piper... and possibly undo all the progress she'd made with Marion in the past few days.

The door to the room flew open as Clara straightened up, and her two blonde friends came barrelling towards her. "Clara!" Agnes screeched. "You never told us... the hair, the chin, the eyes—the King's Secretary, Clara!"

"You said he wasn't helping you!" Marion added vehemently. "You said—you never said!"

Clara just blinked at her overwrought friends, wincing as their high-pitched shrieks grated on her ears, before shaking her head and sighing. She supposed she'd better have this out at once... then spend a couple days thinking on her own and letting her friends cool down before asking their advice on the task Thomas set her (_All I ask is that you consider the matter while I'm away, and know what you want from me when I return_). Right now, they were all far too excitable.

"Thomas requested my discretion in regards to our association at its very genesis, months ago. I gave my word to keep secret our contact, and have done my best to keep that promise," she informed Agnes and Marion, answering their implicit questions, before standing and smoothing down her skirts. "However, he gave me leave to be done with the secrecy, so I may speak plainly now. But if we're going to have this conversation, we're not having it here," she decided firmly, walking past her friends and heading for her chambers. After a moment, Agnes and Marion followed.

Silently, aware of the heavy gazes on her back and the curious glances of the servants they passed, Clara led them into her bedchamber, which had a small fire still burning in the grate, and shut the door behind them. Hopefully, that would ensure that the majority of their dialogue would not be overhead.

Well, unless Marion shouted.

Which was, admittedly, looking extremely likely.

When she turned back from bolting the door, Marion was standing by the hearth and Agnes was perched on the edge of the bed. "So," Clara began, moving to sit down on her trunk at the foot of the bed, placing herself between her two friends, "you have questions."

"Is it him? The man you told me about?" Agnes asked immediately.

"What man?" Marion demanded. "You didn't tell me about any man."

"Is it any wonder?" Agnes muttered, too soft for Marion to hear but audible enough for Clara.

Clara fought the urge to bury her face in a pillow and scream at the same time she fought the urge to laugh, and had to cover them both with a cough. "Perhaps I should start from the beginning," she interrupted, once she felt more mistress of herself. "You know how Thom—how Master Cromwell and I met. I went to solicit his assistance in the matter of Arthur's wardship."

"But he didn't help you," Marion broke in, confused. "You told us he wasn't helping you."

"I said that he told me he wasn't helping me," Clara corrected, reminding herself that she didn't need to feel ashamed of her misdirection. Thomas had asked her to keep their association discreet at the beginning, and she'd given her word to do so; there was no shame in keeping a promise, even if it involved some deception. "And he did. He told me outright that he was unable to assist me... but that didn't mean he wasn't, anyway. Assisting me, that is."

Agnes and Marion were both gobsmacked. "Why, you sly thing!" Agnes cried, sounding far more impressed than Clara really thought was warranted. Marion, on the other hand, seemed betrayed, her blue eyes wide and her mouth hanging open.

Clara herself just shrugged uncomfortably and kept speaking. "He asked me to keep him secret because he didn't want to make an outright enemy of the Boleyn family, and after meeting Lord Rochford I completely understand," she added with a grimace. "I gave my word to conceal our dealings to the best of my ability, which was why I never said anything. But the girls whom I've been tutoring all these months are his nieces; he is the courtier who has been helping me prepare for a position with the Queen; and he is also the man I snuck into Whitehall to consult the day of the wardship hearing. We have become quite good friends."

Marion seemed to accept the explanation, and frowned thoughtfully, apparently synthesising this new information. Agnes, though, looked at Clara with a challenging expression. "Friends?" she repeated archly. "Because I could not help but notice that Master Cromwell has dark curls, large ears, and a cleft in his chin..."

For at least the third time today, Clara felt her cheeks growing pink, and she pressed her palms against the heated skin. "Yes, that was him too," she confessed.

"Clara?" Marion said warily.

The blush grew deeper. "I... well. Master Cromwell and I... that is, I find him... and apparently he... but we can't..." Clara stammered and stuttered, before bending double again and burying her face back into her skirts and groaning. She muttered something into the velvet.

"What was that?" Agnes demanded, scooting closer to where Clara perched on her trunk.

"He kissed me," Clara confessed. And with that, it seemed the floodgates were open, and the entire sorry affair came spilling out. "Last week I went by his house for... I don't even remember why I went, but I'm always in and out of Austin Friars for one reason or another, so nobody bats an eye anymore. But there was brandywine and we talked and then he showed me his carpet and we were on the floor and Lord Jesu, his hands in the firelight..." she sighed, remembering not only the look of Thomas' hands in the flickering light, but the feeling of them as they slid up her legs. "And then he kissed me and we... um. And then I let him... ah, yes. I let him. And... er, things would have happened on that carpet if we hadn't been interrupted. And I don't know if I should be thanking Master Sadler for his timely intervention or punching him for the same. I should probably thank him," she admitted glumly, "because I... because, well... but I... don't want to because... because Thomas."

As she spoke, Agnes looked as though she was about to explode from suppressed glee, while Marion looked sick. And now that she'd began to speak, Clara found that she couldn't stop, as months of secrecy were finally lifted from her shoulders and she was finally able to vent to her friends about things that had been weighing on her for almost that long.

"And now he's leaving to go to Rome and I won't see him for weeks, at least. He wants me to think about what I want from him while he's away, and I just don't know, because I know I can't have anything. When it comes down to it, he's still base-born and I'm still a gentlewoman, but that's not all he is—and Holy God, if George Spencer finds out about anything of this I'll be ruined and he'll take Arthur away for certain... but Thomas told me not to think about that, and I do trust him; he hasn't steered me wrong thus far. Although I don't know how I can't possibly not take it into my considerations. But I don't know what I want from him, other than to tear off his doublet and kiss him again, which I know I can't have and shouldn't even want, and it's so miserably muddled I just want to scream," Clara finished in a wail.

She fell over backwards onto the bed and pressed the heels of her palms onto her eyes, breathing heavily. The silence was tense and heavy, and Clara could feel the weight of Agnes and Marion's eyes on her.

The bed shifted underneath her. Clara dropped her hands from her eyes and looked up at Agnes, who was sitting beside her with a serious expression on her face. "Do you love him?" she asked again, harkening back to the conversation they'd had more than a month ago, when Clara had confided her attraction to a then-anonymous courtier.

Her answer hadn't changed, even though that anonymous man now had a name and they all knew it. "I don't know," Clara confessed with a sigh. She let a corner of her mouth curl up into a smile that wasn't really amused. "At least I can be certain that he won't marry anyone else for at least a few months."

That seemed to be the last straw for Marion. "You cannot be serious!" she shouted, stomping over to where Agnes and Clara were reclining on the bed and looming over them. "Are you saying you actually want to marry that man? You're out of your mind!"

Clara scowled up at her sister-in-law. "I said, I don't know," she repeated shortly.

But Marion wasn't pacified. "Have you forgotten Arthur? What will come of him when you marry so far below yourself? That man may be the king's secretary, Clara, but he's not worthy of you—you're a Tyrell! What will it do to Arthur if you marry a man so... so wildly unsuitable? You know Spencer won't like it, and he'll take Arthur away, and your father won't like it, and I—" She stopped short, then, but Clara already knew she was going to say _I won't like it_. But Marion didn't, and changed tacks back to Arthur. "Have you forgotten everything you fought for, that you are so willing to throw it all away for some base-born lawyer?" she finished.

That was going a bit too far. Clara sat up, and glowered at the taller blonde. "I assure you, I have not," she replied icily. "Have you forgotten that you knew nothing of our relationship until we purposefully revealed it? Have you forgotten that Thomas is no mere lawyer, but the king's own secretary? Have you forgotten that I am a woman grown, beholden to no one, and can make my own choices? For again I must assure you, _I have not_."

Marion looked as though Clara's words were blows, but Clara had quite run out of patience with her sister-in-law. Yes, she felt bad about hiding the vast majority of her actions for the past few months, and yes, she was trying to rebuild their bridges after the row of the previous week. Nevertheless, she was not about to let Marion use Clara's guilt and her willingness to mend fences as an excuse to walk all over her, either. "You are my sister and my friend, Marion, not my keeper," she went on, voice steely. "And whatever I do or don't do with Thomas Cromwell is absolutely none of your business. Either of your business," she added with a severe look at Agnes.

Agnes widened her eyes and affected an expression that seemed to question why she had ever thought otherwise. Marion still looked sick, and Clara wasn't sure why. Perhaps because of Robin?

She gentled her tone ever-so-slightly, but still spoke firmly. "I did love your brother, Marion, and I don't want you thinking I didn't. No matter what else happens, I will still wear black and mourn for Robin until a year is past. But I don't intend to live my life alone, either. Sooner or later, I will remarry, whether to Thomas or someone else. It doesn't mean that I didn't love Robin, but I'm only twenty-five, and I'm not ready to wither on the vine quite yet," she explained calmly.

Something else occurred to her. "You will always have a place with me if you want it, Mari; I'll never throw you out or stuff you into a nunnery," Clara promised earnestly, and watched Marion's face relax. Which was good; she didn't want to hurt Marion, after all. But she also had to make sure the older woman knew that Clara wasn't to be pushed around, either. "However, do not think to dictate my life or the man I chose to spend it with. You are my sister, and I will take your opinions into consideration as I will for any of my friends, but you are not my mother, and I've had quite enough of your peevishness and your churlishness. If you don't like what I've chosen to do with my life, you are welcome to return to Ardley," she finished sternly.

Marion gave a curt nod once Clara was finished and hurried out of the room, face pale and blue eyes shining with tears. In fact, Clara was sure she saw the older woman wiping a tear from her cheek as she shut the door behind her, and she definitely heard her sobs as she retired to her own chambers.

Heaving a sigh, Clara fell back onto the bedclothes beside Agnes. "Well, that was unpleasant," she muttered.

"But necessary," Agnes replied seriously. At Clara's curious look, she elaborated, "You probably don't notice, but she's very jealous of your attention, and doesn't like anyone with a better claim to it than she. She seems to think she has a right to you and your time, and grudges anyone who takes it away from her. She's a bit like a child who never learned to share in that respect," she added dryly.

"I suppose she got used to the idea of her and me alone, running the Tyrell holdings," Clara admitted, adding glumly, "It's probably all my fault for not being firmer with her."

"Perhaps a little," Agnes allowed, jostling Clara's arm when she glared, "but she's how many years your senior? You can't be blamed for it entirely—most of it's Marion. At least you're bringing her to heel now, before she cuts the wrong person. Especially since you are soon to be a courtier."

"I just don't know what I'm going to do with her," Clara blurted suddenly. "And I feel so awful for thinking it, and for treating her like a burden, but I truly don't know what to do with her. She can't come with me to court, she can't stay here, she doesn't want to go home..."

"She may have to," Agnes replied practically. "If there's nowhere else for her to go... and I don't like her enough to let her stay here. I'm sorry, Clara, but there is it. It's either Leicestershire or a nunnery."

"If she's still speaking to me tomorrow, I'll have to ask her," Clara sighed, removing her hood and tossing it to the head of the bed. "I wish I'd thought to ask Thomas about it. He might have some other suggestions for me to consider."

"Is that all he'd have for you?" Agnes asked slyly, grinning suggestively.

Clara's cheeks obligingly went pink. "Agnes," she complained.

"Clara, you just confessed that you've been practically having a secret romance with the king's secretary—a romance which none of us knew about, I might add," Agnes reminded her mischievously. "Of course I'm going to tease you about it!"

"Don't call it that. It's more of a friendship than a romance," Clara grumbled, though her face was still flushed.

Agnes' expression was pointedly sceptical. "Friends generally do not want to tumble friends on their carpets, you know," she noted. "Nor do they look at each other the way you and Master Cromwell look at each other. Nor do they have to actually consider what they want from each other—"

"All right, I understand your point!" Clara interrupted with a scowl. "But we are friends."

"That's clearly not all you are," Agnes replied shrewdly. Something occurred to her, and her smile slid back towards teasing. "Also, Clara, brandywine? Do you mean to tell me last week, when I feared you were violently ill, you were merely suffering from an overabundance of drink?"

Clara gave a tortured whimper before rolling over and burying her face in the bedclothes.

* * *

_23 February, 1529_

When Clara went to Austin Friars that Tuesday for Alice and Joan's lessons (both of whom were coming along very nicely indeed; had it been up to Clara, she would opine that Alice was nearly ready to run the household on her own, albeit with some guidance), Thomas was already gone. Richard informed her that he'd left on Saturday, the day after he'd spoken to her. She was glad he, at least, had drummed up the courage to overcome the awkwardness and seek her out; otherwise, who knew how long it would've been until they could speak again?

She already missed him. When she departed for Agnes' house immediately after supper, she felt a little empty. Her evening didn't seem complete without speaking to Thomas.

And thankfully, Ralph Sadler had been nowhere to be seen. Clara wasn't quite ready to face him, yet.

As she passed through the hall on her way back to her chambers in Lord Sedley's house, her attention was arrested by a soft, "Clara?"

Clara stopped and turned to see Marion sitting in a chair by the dying fire. The blonde looked tired and drawn, though she stood once she had been acknowledged. "Coming back from that man's house?" she asked, not quite hiding the bitterness in her voice.

"If you're referring to Master Cromwell, then yes, I was at Austin Friars this evening," Clara replied evenly, moving towards the staircase which led to her chambers and beckoning Marion to follow her. She didn't want to have any conversation concerning Thomas within earshot of anyone else. Especially not with Marion. All it would take was one ill-chosen word to reach the wrong ears, and pretty soon George Spencer would have his rumour (and a true rumour, at that) and Arthur would be lost to her. "In return for his assistance during the wardship case, I agreed to tutor his nieces on how to run a household. They are sweet, clever girls and I am very fond of them."

"And him?" Marion inquired, her tones growing more bitter still.

"He has left for Rome on His Majesty's business," Clara replied pointedly, emphasising Thomas' ties to the Crown as she shut her chamber door behind them and turned to face her sister-in-law.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Marion demanded suddenly, sounding plaintive instead of bitter.

"Because I promised not to," Clara repeated, trying not to sound as annoyed as she was. Why didn't anyone understand? She had given her word to be discreet, and she'd kept it; that was honourable, even if it had involved hiding things from her family. It wasn't as though she'd told them any outright lies, after all, and wasn't she allowed to have secrets of her own? "It's not personal, Marion."

"Of course it's personal!" Marion cried. "He made you lie to us, he's taken immense liberties with you—he means you have you, Clara, can't you see? He's got you acting the lady of the house already! He... he's turning you against us!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Clara said flatly. "He's doing no such thing. All Thomas Cromwell has done is be my friend."

"Some friend," Marion muttered.

Clara's temper frayed a little bit more. "Don't be so churlish," she scolded. "You've never even met him, not properly, and can't possibly make judgements about his character."

"I know he's changing you," Marion insisted, setting her chin stubbornly. "You're different, Clara, since coming here, and I can't help but blame him for the person you're becoming."

"Well, don't," Clara snapped, stung to defend her absent friend and indignant that Marion didn't seem to give her enough credit. "I'm not 'becoming' anything, Marion, that I wasn't already. You just never noticed."

Even as the words passed her lips, Clara realised how inherently true they were. There was so much about her that Marion, for all their closeness, did not know—not only about her friends, but about her religious leanings and her personal faith, the lengths to which she would go for her loved ones and even something so silly as her preference in men. Part of that was likely because Clara hadn't needed to display or discuss any of these things during the years she was rusticating in Leicestershire... but not all of it. Marion looked at Clara, but she didn't see; instead, there was a false, shining image of whatever it was that Marion seemed to perceive which wasn't actually Clara herself. Clara had a thought that it was time to pull the scales from Marion's eyes and find out if the older woman could reconcile herself to the loss of her idealised sister and deal with the real person in her place.

And it seemed that to do so would be an example of being cruel to be kind, for once again, Marion looked as though she'd been struck. However, her jaw was still set in mulish lines. "No, I refuse to believe—"

But Clara interrupted. "Then that's your lookout, not mine," she said coldly. "If you want to be wilfully blind to my strength and my abilities and the person I am and have always been, I won't stop you, but I won't pander to your delusions, either."

"That's not what I meant," Marion protested.

"Really? That's what it sounded like to me," Clara retorted.

"Why are you acting like this?" Marion whispered.

"Like what?"

"So... harsh."

"Because you're not listening!" Clara cried. "You're not listening, and I'm tired of having the same rows with you over and over. I wish you'd just take a good long look at the reality of our situation and actually apply yourself to think of some solutions, rather than resenting everyone and everything that gets in the way of your selfish desires! It would be a sight more helpful to me than your sullenness and your inexplicable belligerence towards my friends, to whom both of us are deeply indebted."

Marion was starting to cry quietly, now, and Clara felt like a terrible person. But she remembered that they were nearly out of choices and time, and did not waver. _Cruel to be kind_, she reminded herself.

Still, she fished a handkerchief out of her sleeve and silently handed it to the blonde.

Marion used the linen to wipe her face, and waited until she had composed herself until she spoke again. "So what is the reality of our situation?" she asked, almost but not quite hiding the bitterness in her voice.

"It's very likely that I will be going to court to serve the Queen," Clara began calmly. Ben was now a groom in the King's household, and thus had a very slight measure of influence, and Thomas had thrown himself behind her appointment, and he was rather influential with both the King and with Cardinal Wolsey, who was still a powerful force in English politics... with all these men speaking in her favour, there was a very good chance she would indeed be going to court. "I will either be lodging with Ben in his chambers or sleeping in a dormitory with the other ladies. You cannot accompany me. Nor can you stay here. If you wish to return to Ardley, you can have the carriage whenever you wish it. Or, if you wish to remain closer to London and therefore closer to Arthur and me, you could go to a nunnery for a time—not to take vows, but to just... stay. For a while."

"What if you don't go to court?" Marion asked hopefully.

Clara had already considered this, and had her answer already prepared: "Then I will take a house somewhere near London." She didn't want to go too far from Arthur and Ben and Agnes and (yes, all right) Thomas and his family even if she didn't go to court. "I hope you would consider staying with me, should that be the case. But no matter what happens to my prospects at court, I mean to remain here in the south," she admitted. "There's more to do in London than in Leicestershire, for all it is noisier. Besides, Arthur is only a day away from the city, whereas it takes anywhere from three to five to get to Peasemore from Ardley. However, my odds of getting a place at court are good," she warned Marion. "So I wouldn't pin too many of your hopes on that."

"What do you want me to do, then?" Marion inquired seriously, biting her lip a little and looking apprehensively at Clara.

Clara thought about it. "I'd like it if you found a place close to London," was her conclusion. "For all we've been somewhat at odds of late, you are my sister, Mari, and I do love you and enjoy your company... when you're not being surly. But we don't need to decide right now," she said reassuringly, both to Marion and herself. "While the issue is pressing, it isn't immediate. But I do want you to think about it," she added seriously. "Take some time, and think about where you want to be and what you want to do once I go to court." She paused, and smiled lopsidedly as she realised that she was making nearly the same request of Marion that Thomas had made of her. "It seems we shall be a very contemplative household for the near future."

Marion looked down at her lap and at the square of linen that was knotted in her hands, and nodded. "All right," she acquiesced. She seemed to be considering saying something, and Clara waited patiently for her to drum up her courage. "Please don't marry him!" was what Marion finally blurted.

Clara was taken aback, and blinked at her sister for a moment. "That's a little premature, don't you think?" she eventually managed, feeling her cheeks flush.

"I maintain that the man is trying to seduce you," Marion insisted darkly. "And I beg you be careful."

"I owe the man a massive debt of gratitude, not only for his efforts on my behalf but also for allowing me to treat his library as my own," Clara replied pointedly. "To say nothing of his extremely edifying company and his steadfast friendship. But in this, we must agree to disagree," she added swiftly, when it looked as though Marion was fully prepared to balk and argue the issue. "Thomas is away for the foreseeable future, and I am unwilling to even consider remarrying until at least June, so the point is quite moot. Unless it becomes immediately relevant, let us not speak of it again."

Showing greater tact that she had been wont to display of late, Marion acquiesced and excused herself to go to bed. Once she was gone, Clara breathed a sigh of relief that the conversation was over, and that Marion was not too offended. It was true, what she'd said: Marion was her sister, and though her conduct of late was strange and unsociable, Clara did love her and didn't like hurting her. But she was not about to tailor her life to Marion's desires, either.

* * *

_5 March, 1529_

The following week passed quietly, along the lines of the routines which had been established since the Tyrell family arrival in London. Ben came to visit several times, Clara sallied forth to Shoreditch on Tuesday and Thursday, and otherwise the women occupying Lord Sedley's house remained inside, huddled around the fire, amusing themselves with books, letters, needlework and thought—above all, thought.

In fact, the pensiveness of the three ladies was so apparent that Benedict Gage remarked upon it, when he came by on Friday afternoon.

Clara lifted her head from her book as she heard him swinging down from his horse outside, and turned towards the door. "Ben's here," she announced.

Agnes perked up slightly at that news, and immediately set about arranging her hood and dress. Marion set down her sewing, and Clara could hear her taking a deep breath. Steeling herself to be polite? _At least she's making the effort_, Clara reminded herself. Although why it should take effort to be polite to her brother was beyond her.

Ben came into the withdrawing room with a gust of cold air, cheeks pink and creased with a wide smile. "Good day to you, ladies," he greeted cheerfully. He had taken well to the transition from Wolsey's household to the king's, and seemed pleased as punch with his new position, all bright smiles and amusing anectdotes whenever he stopped in. "You are all rather quiet today. Actually, you've been rather quiet all week. Is there something wrong?"

Clara shrugged a little, and set aside her book, which she had borrowed from Austin Friars before Thomas departed for Italy. "Nothing is wrong, Ben. It's just been rather dull lately," was all she said.

Ben grinned at her, then, and pulled a thick letter sealed heavy red wax from his doublet. "Well, my dear sister, I bring you news that will liven things up," he announced theatrically, handing the missive over with the greatest of ceremony. "Clara, you are to come to court as lady in waiting to her Majesty, Queen Katherine!"

The ladies were certainly not quiet following this announcement. Though Clara's effusions were characteristically quiet, they were nevertheless energetic, and her excitement fed Agnes' decidedly more vigorous and voluminous congratulations. Even Marion managed some mostly sincere well-wishes, though her eyes were downcast and her smile somewhat sickly.

Eventually, when the celebration of Clara's good fortune had waned, and Ben and Agnes took themselves elsewhere to do whatever it was lovers did (for herself, she didn't want to know what they were doing), Marion sought her sister-in-law out. "Clara?"

"Yes, Marion?" Clara asked absently, her mind already flying over everything she would need to do before presenting herself before the Queen.

"I have decided."

That brought Clara up short, and she immediately turned her full attention onto the blonde. "And?" she asked tentatively. She wasn't sure what she wanted Marion to have chosen. It would be simplest for Marion to return to Ardley, but they would not thereafter be much in company, due to the distance. Installing Marion as a guest in a nunnery would be slightly more expensive, and inadvertently support an institution for which Clara herself had no love, but it would solve most of their problems, and she had found a pleasant priory in Kent which was not too distant, and was supposed to have quite a good library. Perhaps Marion might ask the prioress to let her borrow a book or two?

"I think... I think I should like to go to a nunnery for a time," Marion admitted. "Not to become a nun, for I have no calling for the religious life, but I think I might like to be a lay sister in a quiet convent with some other ladies to speak with. And perhaps you might come visit me, when you are not attending on her Majesty, and perhaps I might leave to visit Arthur with you?"

"Of course," Clara assured her. "I have found a possible convent already—Bilsington, in Kent. I will write to the prioress this very day, and we will see what comes of it. I needn't present myself to the Queen until a fortnight next; I hope we might get you settled before then." She reached out suddenly and grabbed Marion's hands, and did a silly little dance in place, jogging their clasped hands up and down. "Oh Marion, I am so very excited! I have a position at court! I should like to see that wastrel Spencer blow up a scandal when I am one of Queen Katherine's ladies," she added, with a fierce smugness.

That made Marion laugh, and lifted the sullen bitterness which had been settling of late into the lines of her face. "I will expect long letters from you," she warned playfully. "Full of news and gossip."

Clara grinned widely as her shoulders quivered with suppressed laughter. It seemed everyone—even the usually-disapproving Marion—was encouraging her bad behaviour as a gossipmonger. "That, my dear sister, you can count on," she said laughingly. Not the least because Thomas was counting on her to find whatever information she could to help the King's divorce case.

_I will do my best,_ she told him mentally, directing her thoughts across the Channel to Rome, and God willing, _I will not let you down_.

* * *

**A/N part deux**: I don't like this chapter. Maybe because it took me nearly 6 months to write. Or maybe it nearly took me that long because I don't like this chapter. Bah. At least it's done. Next chapter the real fun stuff starts, in which Clara goes to court and Thomas Cromwell kicks around Rome like a boss.

Well, like a slightly fretful boss, at least.

Anyway, it's been so long; please drop me a review and at least tell me how you've all been doing (and if you see any mistakes; this hasn't been beta'ed). I'll do my best not to let so long go between updates in the future. Hopefully, with more interesting subject matter, I'll be able to write rather more quickly.

Now, if only someone could prise my muse away from Sherlock Holmes...


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** I am rubbish at this, I'm so sorry. I said it wouldn't be another six months and it was... arrgh. One of the reasons it took me so long was because _Sherlock_ series 2 came out in January and generally pre-empted all my attention, before gutting my muse and leaving it crying in the corner after _Reichenbach_. But then I recovered! And lord only knows how long it'll be until series 3 comes out (I don't even think they've started filming it, yet), so until then this fic will have more of my attention.

Also, this chapter is very long, which I hope in some small way makes up for the length of time between updates. I almost hacked this chapter into two bits, but then I said sod it and kept it as was because I just want to move on already. Anyway. This chapter is mostly Clara doing stuff and being awkward. Mostly awkward, actually. This chapter, if it had a real title, would probably be "A Study in Awkwardness".

Also also, many thanks go out to the marvellous Mercury Gray, who is always very quick to lend an ear when I need to hash things out. :D

* * *

**Chapter 12:**

_22 March, 1529_

Clara's second visit to Whitehall was much more restful than her first, though she liked it little better. While she was in no danger of being thrown out should she be discovered this time, as she had actually been invited in, it was still rife with whispers and murmurs and it still felt as though everyone was staring at her (possibly this time because everyone was, curious as they were about the newcomers to court).

Furthermore, her list of allies had been whittled down by one. Thomas Cromwell was still abroad in Rome. And she had to admit, she felt a lot less confident without knowing that he was somewhere within the palace, waiting to support her or advise her or help her should she need him.

But there was nothing for it. So Clara just kept her head down, ignored the calls and jeers from the men watching her and the other new ladies as they passed, and continued to follow William Blount, Baron Mountjoy and the Queen's Chamberlain, through the halls to the Queen's chambers. She did her best to shut her ears—there was so much noise! All whispers and words and footsteps and musicians and papers and animals and all of it pounding on her ears—and stole glances at her surroundings and the people she passed as she went. But there was also so much to see!

It was all so entirely overwhelming—the sights and sounds and smells, the knowledge that she was here to stay. If Thomas were here, he would no doubt advise her that she would get used to it eventually. And though she couldn't quite imagine it at the moment, he was also likely correct. She got used to London when she first came to the Duchess of Norfolk's household as a girl, after all.

Not that it made anything any less uncomfortable now.

The other three women who walked with her looked just as nervous as she did, though they, like she, did their best to hide it. The tall, slender girl with light brown hair tucked into a snood showed her nerves in her darting green eyes, flickering here, there, and everywhere as she chewed at her lower lip. The very buxom lady with blonde curls and rosy cheeks was breathing so deeply she looked as though she might burst forth from her bodice. The young maiden with freckles across her pointed nose who trailed after Clara was very pale, and her steps were clumsy and halting. Meanwhile, Clara herself could feel her hands trembling, and laced them tightly together so that it might not show.

Finally, they were led down a stone-walled corridor through a door and into a large suite of rooms, festooned with lovely hangings and fine wood panelling, and full of rich furniture and gleaming ornaments and crucifixes, many of which were probably worth at least as much as Clara's yearly income. There was also a monkey on a chain near the window, but she paid it little mind, casting her eyes around for the queen. But she didn't see any woman who met the description she'd got from Ben, and the other ladies around didn't seem to be attending on anyone in particular. Perhaps Her Majesty was elsewhere?

"Her Majesty is at prayer, but will be out to welcome you soon," Mountjoy assured them, answering her unspoken question as he moved towards a large book resting on a table.

Clara shared an uncertain glance with the buxom blonde—were they supposed to follow him?—but in the end they remained where they were, standing in a little group of four in the centre of the queen's chambers.

"Lady Elizabeth Geste," the blonde offered in a whisper with a smile.

"Lady Clara Tyrell," Clara murmured in return, ducking her head a little in a subtle acknowledgement. "A pleasure, Lady Geste."

Further introductions were stalled when a door opened, and an older woman wearing a sober black dress and a veil of fine black lace emerged from what appeared to be a private chapel, trailed by two attending ladies garbed in the black and silver that most of the ladies were wearing. Presumably, then, this was Katherine of Aragon, Queen of England.

This supposition was borne out when everyone in the room dropped into either curtsies or bows, the four newest ladies a beat after everyone else. Clara bent her knee with the others and lowered her eyes, but peered up through her lashes as best she could at the noble lady she was here to serve... and spy upon.

Katherine of Aragon was a handsome woman. She had even features, long dark hair not yet gone to grey, and a pair of clear blue-grey eyes. Though she was clearly past the prime of her life and her looks, it was equally clear that she had been very beautiful when she was younger. Even now she was striking and lovely... and sad. Clara discerned that immediately, through the merest glance. Queen Katherine was deeply sad. It was graven in the lines around her mouth and cut into her forehead.

Though Clara supposed she had ample reason to be sad.

"Welcome, ladies," the Queen said kindly, her English still flavoured by Spain, even after all these years. She gestured for them all to rise and approached the four newest occupants with a gentle smile on her face, which did little to lift the deep sadness underneath. "I hope you will enjoy your time here at court, and I am sure you were serve me loyally and well."

Clara curtsied with the others and murmured the obligatory, "Yes, your Majesty," while trying to shove back the guilt that welled up inside her at the queen's words. She would serve Katherine well, she would... she'd just be doing other things too.

The Queen had retired to a chair by the fire and picked up some sewing as her chamberlain finished with the four new ladies. They had to be sworn into the Queen's service and—for the others, at least—assigned their dormitories. Thankfully, Clara had a relative at court and was thus not obligated to share chambers with unknown maidens. She was to share Benedict's rooms, which she much preferred. Though the suite was very, very small, at least Ben knew how to be quiet. It had taken her months to learn to sleep in a dormitory with other people and all their noises when she first came to London as a girl. Besides, she was a woman grown and a widow besides, and the idea of sleeping in a chamber for maidens was distasteful.

Once the minutiae had been dealt with, Mountjoy shooed the new ladies over towards the Queen and took his leave. Her Majesty took the opportunity to question her new attendants, and then assign them a more veteran lady to guide them during their first weeks at court. Clara, as the eldest of the newcomers, had been the last to be sworn in and was thus the last to be addressed. But she kept her ears sharp and split her attention between the new ladies (aside from Elizabeth Geste, there was Catherine Darcy and Elizabeth Perris) and the rest of the people in the queen's chambers. This was made easier due to the fact that everyone was paying at least a little attention to the dialogues between the Queen and her new ladies-in-waiting.

Finally, it was Clara's turn to be beckoned forward, and she went with an inward cringe, feeling everyone's eyes on her like layers and layers of cobwebs. She sank into a curtsey. "Your Majesty," she murmured, keeping her eyes fixed on the hem of the Queen's gown.

"I see you are a widow, Lady Tyrell," Katherine commented mildly, gesturing for her to rise.

"Yes, your Majesty," Clara confirmed.

"For how long?" the Queen pressed gently.

Clara folded her fingers together so that their trembling would not be so apparent and tried in vain to relax. "Robin—that is, Sir Robert Tyrell—died in the Sweat this past summer, my Lady," she replied.

Katherine nodded, a sympathetic expression on her face. "And did you have children?" she queried, still attempting to coax more discourse out of her reticent new attendant.

"Yes, my Lady. Two, a son and a daughter," Clara replied.

"And where are they now?" Katherine pried delicately.

"Constance—my daughter—she died with her father," Clara said quietly, sadly. Poor sweet Constance, with her wide blue eyes and her chubby little hands. "But my son is still living," she offered with a smile, perking up slightly at the reminder of her son, despite how uncomfortable she still was.

Something flickered in the Queen's eyes even as her expression creased into an answering smile, and Clara realised a moment too late what a surviving son would mean to Katherine of Aragon, who had lost her sons and had only a daughter left living, and whose husband was trying to get rid of her for that very reason. Clara cringed a little, hunching her shoulders and ducking her head, aware of the other ladies sending slightly worried glances towards the Queen and slightly chastising glances to her. Yes, she'd put her foot in her mouth a bit, but what else could she have said? Katherine had asked. And it wasn't as though other women didn't have sons!

"Ladies, please," the Queen chided softly, and she must have made a gesture of some kind, since Clara could hear the soft whisper of expensive silk. "Lady Tyrell, you need not apologise for having a living son. Children are a blessing, and that I have no son is but the will of God. Thanks to His goodness, I have a living daughter, and I would trade Mary for nothing."

Clara nodded and kept her eyes on her hands, watching the sunlight streaming through the windows reflect against her garnet ring. Robin had given her this ring when he married her. It wasn't the flashiest jewel, nor the richest, but he'd told her, when he placed it on her finger, that it meant devotion and friendship, and to take it as a token of his loyalty to her. That, to her mind, was worth far more than any expensive ornament.

Queen Katherine's accented voice brought her back out of her contemplation, though Clara didn't raise her eyes much higher than the queen's lap, feeling far too unspeakably awkward to dare meet the lady's eyes. "How old is your son, Lady Tyrell?" the queen inquired.

"Four, your Majesty," Clara replied uneasily, wishing that they could get off the subject of her son. Not that she didn't enjoy talking about her child—because she did—but sons seemed as though they might be an awkward topic of conversation in this suite of rooms. Furthermore, if they kept much longer on the subject of Arthur, they'd inevitably stumble over the Boleyns, which she knew would be an awkward topic of conversation in this suite of rooms, and which would require Clara to arrange her face and hide her true feelings, and she wasn't sure she had the fortitude at the moment to do so credibly. Better to just change the subject and avoid that problem altogether.

However, it didn't seem as though the Queen would rest until she had drawn as much information from her reticent new attendant as she could, and she kept prying politely. "And his name?"

"Arthur, your Majesty," Clara replied, still feeling awkward and wondering what stars had aligned to make her family so rife with unfortunate associations. Arthur had been Queen Katherine's first husband, after all, and one of the reasons for the ongoing annulment campaign to sunder her from her second. Hoping that the Queen would stop asking questions if she overcame her nervousness and provided more information, Clara added, "For King Arthur. Those were some of my favourite stories to read as a child."

"Ah, so you like to read?" Katherine asked with a kindly smile, seemingly pleased that Clara was offering information of her own volition. Either that, or she was happy that the subject was changing to something much less potentially painful.

"Yes, your Majesty, very much," Clara replied earnestly. Mindful that providing information on her own forestalled more questions, she swallowed nervously and went on, knowing that Queen Katherine was a patron of several humanist writers and therefore hoping that this subject would cause her no pain, "My favourites are the humanists. And Christine de Pisan. And Bocaccio. And St. Augustine." She bit her tongue before she could continue listing all the authors she enjoyed. With as discomfited as she was feeling now, it wouldn't take much to slip up and include 'Martin Luther' or 'William Tyndale' among the list. Better to just stop talking now.

Still, Katherine seemed cheered by this initiative, and gave Clara a maternal beam. "A learned lady," the Queen commented warmly. "Well, I am glad you have brought your learning to court, Lady Tyrell, and hope you will enjoy your time here."

"Thank you, your Majesty," Clara returned with a curtsey.

Katherine smiled again, and beckoned to someone standing behind Clara. Clara fought the urge to turn and see who it was, knowing she mustn't turn her back to the queen, and felt her shoulders tense as she heard someone come up behind her; she hated the feeling of someone approaching her unseen. But then the lady entered into Clara's peripheral vision, and she relaxed slightly.

Only to tense once more when Queen Katherine announced, "This is Lady Maud Knivert; she shall be your mentor as you adjust to life at court, for I hear there is to be a closer connected between you one day soon."

Lady Maud Knivert. There was a name she hadn't heard for a while—since Christmas, in fact. Maud Knivert, Benedict's betrothed. She was the reason he'd tried to defy their father, which had sparked off the argument which had left Arthur dazed and bleeding at John Gage's hand, inspiring Clara to flee to Austin Friars and Thomas Cromwell. Afterwards, Ben seemed inclined to pretend that he didn't have a fiancée, and for the most part Maud Knivert had been wholly ignored by the Gage siblings. But now she was here and real and standing beside Clara and meant to guide her through her first weeks as a lady-in-waiting and hell, what was she supposed to do?

Clara felt all the blood drain from her cheeks and fought to keep the discomfort from expressing itself on her face. Something must've shown, though, since the queen looked a bit confused, her brow furrowing slightly. Nevertheless, Katherine waved them away, and Clara immediately ducked her head, curtsied, and scurried away to a more peripheral position, wanting to get away from the scrutiny of the entire room, and not wanting to look at her future sister-in-law.

"Lady Tyrell?" Maud Knivert asked tentatively, once Clara had taken up a position near a window, almost-but-not-quite hiding behind the curtains. "Are you all right?" Her voice was a mellow sort of alto, flavoured with a Norfolk accent. Well, that explained how and why Sir John Gage had known the family enough to choose Maud as a bride for his only son.

Clara looked up, then, and met Maud's eyes. Her first impression was that Maud was not as pretty as Agnes. She immediately scolded herself for being so catty, but it couldn't change the truth, either. Maud Knivert was not as beautiful as Agnes Keriell; in fact, she was quite plain. Her hair was a mousey brown a few shades lighter than Clara's, and her smallish eyes were a clear grey-blue, surrounded by eyelashes so fair it was almost as though she didn't have any. And while her features weren't hideous, there was no marked beauty in them, either. Compared to Agnes...

"I..." Clara began suddenly, remembering that she'd been asked a question. "Forgive me, Lady Knivert—my manners have gone begging. I'm quite all right, thank you, I just... don't like being looked at."

Maud seemed to relax a little, and gave Clara a cheerful smile that, though friendly, did nothing for her looks, cutting deeper lines around her mouth and making her eyes even smaller. But her voice was warm and cordial as she said, "I'm afraid you'll have to get used to being looked at, Lady Tyrell, at least for a while." She laughed lightly at the face Clara made, and added, "I'm very glad to meet you, at last. Or rather, any Gage," she elaborated at Clara's confused expression. "I... well, Master Gage and I have been betrothed for nearly four months, and I've never met him, or anyone of the family, and the wedding is intended for June..."

Clara felt immediately contrite. She could imagine how Maud must feel, being told that she was to marry a man but having no communication from him or his family for months. It must be absolutely nerve-wracking. At least after Clara had been betrothed to Robert Tyrell, he'd written her a letter of introduction as soon as things were finalised, and come to present himself in person the next time he was in London. Maud had received no such acknowledgement from Benedict, and it must be driving her mad.

"Forgive us, Lady Knivert," Clara apologised, feeling ashamed. "I... it has been a very eventful winter, and other things took precedence—not that you're not important—but there was the wardship hearing and Ben switched households and I had to arrange for Marion to go to the nunnery in Kent and we've been very busy—not that it excuses us, but we just... forgot..." she finished weakly, feeling her face heat with embarrassment.

Maud, however, was smiling tolerantly, and once Clara had stammered to a halt, reached out to put a consoling hand on her arm. "I quite understand, Lady Tyrell. At least you're here now," she assured her with a bright smile. "And please, do call me Maud."

Clara felt like scum. "Clara," she offered in return, trying to respond to Maud's warmth with her own. She didn't succeed, and suspected she looked a little ill and very uncomfortable.

But Maud just reached out a hand and grasped Clara's trembling, chilly one firmly. "Don't be afraid, Clara," she offered softly. "The Queen is truly a wonderful mistress, and you'll get used to all the people soon enough."

The smile on her face turned more genuine, and Clara took a deep breath and tried to shove her more negative feelings—among them included her fear, guilt, shyness, and awkwardness—away. This was the path she'd chosen to walk, discomforts and all, and there was now nothing to do but grit her teeth and walk it. "Well then," she said resolutely, "I suppose I had better get started. What shall we do first?"

Apparently a tour of the queen's rooms was first on the agenda. Clara did her best to memorise the layout of the royal chambers, and she instinctively checked for blind spots, corners, doors, alcoves, rugs, curtains, and other such things which, if she was trying to discreetly move around the chambers (to escape an angry father, a snappish mother, a heavy-handed priest), would offer concealment and muffle noise. Or, since she was supposed to be here as a spy as well, would offer opportunities to listen unobtrusively.

If she could listen, anyway. There was so much noise, even here in the queen's rooms. There were quite sounds of the household going about their business, but the household was so large that even the rustle of brocade and the quiet chatting of the women at work became loud. There was the crackles and pops of the fires, the hisses of candles, and Clara's sharp ears could hear beyond the panelled walls to the footsteps in the corridors outside. She knew she'd get used to it eventually—she always did, sooner or later; how else was she to live in London?—but at the beginning it always seemed so overwhelming.

"How do you manage?" she asked Maud suddenly, flinching away from a shout which seeped through the walls. The King was on the move, it seemed—Lord, was he coming here?

Maud replied and distracted her before she could descend into a panic. "Manage what?" she wanted to know.

"All the noise."

This appeared to slightly confused Clara's future sister-in-law. "What noise?"

Too late, Clara remembered Thomas' adjunction to conceal the sensitivity of her hearing, and wished she could take her words back. But... well, Maud was going to be her sister, wasn't she? She'd find out sooner or later anyway, wouldn't she? "I... well, Ben and I, we have very sensitive ears," Clara explained lamely. "Mine more so than his. And we hear... more." The tromp of boots caught her attention, and she took the opportunity to ask, "The King isn't coming here, is he? I don't think I can handle meeting more than one monarch a day."

"I doubt it," Maud replied, with a slight measure of bitterness, turning unconsciously to look back towards where the queen sat quietly sewing. "He almost never does, anymore." Clara couldn't think of anything to say, and so bit her lip and kept quiet. And soon enough, Maud shook off her scowl and continued the tour, thankfully forgetting the query about the noise.

Once Clara was oriented a little better inside the palace (and aware of where the important things such as privies and kitchens were), Maud brought her back to the queen's privy chambers, where they settled down with the majority of the other ladies clustered around the queen, all working on piles of sewing. Maud settled down immediately with a shirt whose collar and cuffs she was embroidering with the same blackwork that the queen was so proficient in, and Clara was left to follow suit, unenthusiastically taking up a shift which needed hemming. She was no kind of needlewoman at all, and could only manage hemming and other functional work if she was trying very, very hard.

But between the curious looks from the other ladies and the unfamiliarity of the surroundings, Clara found it hard to concentrate. Even though Maud seemed to sense her uneasiness (not terribly difficult, that; Clara's discomfort was practically a physical presence in the room) and did her best to draw the tense brunette into quiet conversation and shield her from the curiosity of the other ladies, Clara kept pricking her fingers with the needle she was wielding, and the hem of the shift she was stitching was speckled with her blood.

"You're not very good at that, are you," Maud commented mildly when Clara pricked her finger for the sixth time and hissed in a sharp, audible breath through her teeth.

"No," Clara replied tightly, sticking her bleeding finger into her mouth. "Nor have I ever been," she added once the digit had stopped aching so fiercely. "Marion does the sewing in our family."

"Is Marion your sister?" Maud asked casually, looking back down at her embroidery.

"Yes," Clara said, looking down at her finger, which was a bit swollen and red. Expectedly, perhaps, given how many times she'd stabbed it with a needle in the past hour.

"I had heard your sister died," Maud went on, voice still studiedly careless.

"She did." Suddenly, she realised where Maud's questions were tending. "Oh, that was Rosamond—our younger sister, Ben's and mine. Marion is my husband's sister."

"Ah." Maud threaded her needle through the fine wool a few more times before remarking idly, "So there are just the two of you left, then? You and Benedict?"

"And our father, Sir John, and some cousins," Clara answered, realising that Maud was digging for information on the family.

"Do they all live at... what is the house called? Croxhall? Croxworth?"

"Croxton Hall?" Clara supplied, picking up her needle now that the ache in her finger had subsided to a dull throb.

"That's the one. Is that the main seat of the family?"

"Well, our line of it, anyway. Originally, the Gages were from Essex—that's where the family originated, as far as I know, back before the Normans came—and the Norfolk Gages are a cadet branch," Clara explained, frowning down at the shift in her lap as she carefully pushed the needle through the fabric. "Why, where is your family from?"

"Norfolk as well," Maud replied. "Buckenham. It's a bit further east from your family's lands."

Clara just nodded, trying to focus on her sewing (at least the hem was mostly straight thus far) and listen to the other conversations taking place around the room. But Maud pulled her attention back as she spoke once more about her family, saying, "We don't hear much about your family, though we all know you exist. It is only you and your father and your brother?"

"Only Father, actually; Ben spends most of his time in London nowadays, and I... haven't been back to Croxton since my marriage," Clara replied with a shrug.

"No mother?"

"Mother died of the Sweat this past summer."

"My condolences," Maud murmured, sounding sincerely sympathetic. "It must be very lonely for your father, all alone in the hall."

"I don't think he minds," Clara assured her, somewhat sardonically. Though in all likelihood Father did miss Mother—possibly because Lady Mary was as demanding of quiet as Sir John—it was just as likely that he was ecstatic that there were fewer people living now at Croxton Hall to make noise to grate on his sensitive ears.

"Mmm. Well, Papa did say he was... a bit brusque."

_That's one word for it_, thought Clara.

Maud went on, her needle sliding gracefully through the linen in her hands, "Does he not like London, your father?"

"He loathes it," Clara replied wryly.

"I heard he'd come down for Christmas, though," Maud persisted.

At the memory of that most miserable holiday, her voice went flat as she answered, "He did. He loathed it then as well." _And he spread his unhappiness around with a liberal hand. Like always_.

Maud's blue eyes flickered over to her face, and whatever she saw there was enough to make her bite her lip and change the subject away from Sir John Gage. "And your brother?"

"I don't think he minds London," Clara said with a shrug that turned into a flinch as she accidentally drove her needle into the pad of her finger again. She hissed a swift breath through her teeth as a drop of scarlet bloomed on the pale wool. Perhaps only because she was distracted by the pain—again—she didn't guard herself well enough to remember not to say what she said next: "He certainly seems to enjoy the company."

As she straightened up and stuck her finger in her mouth, thus catching sight of Maud's pinched expression, Clara realised two things. One, she'd just stuck her foot in her mouth. And two, Maud had been pumping her for information.

She'd been doing it subtly and carefully and in a very roundabout manner, but Clara could see in retrospect that Maud had been digging for information on Ben and his reaction to their betrothal (and the reason he had not introduced himself), and the sort of life she could expect when she married him (no other women to challenge her authority over the household, but with a stern father-in-law and an apparently-indifferent husband). And Clara... had been led around like a puppy on a string.

This whole courtier thing was going to be harder than it seemed.

Clara cast around for something she could say—that she hadn't meant it like that, that there was a good reason Ben hadn't presented himself, that she was sure everything would be just fine—but they all had the flavour of lies, given that what she'd just said had implied that Ben was enjoying London and avoiding Maud on purpose. Which he was. But she hadn't wanted to tell Maud that—not only was it unkind, it was also not Clara's place. She was only Benedict's widowed sister, with a life and a son and a responsibility to her own family. It wasn't her place to interfere with her brother's marriage.

"You could've just asked me, you know," Clara said, slightly wounded that Maud would treat with her like that.

Maud looked a little sheepish, and a faint blush rose in her cheeks. "Well, we've only just met," she demurred, making no apologies but offering an acceptable reason.

"In the future, just ask," Clara advised, bending her head back to her sewing in an effort to hide her face and conceal her hurt and her sudden trepidation. She felt naïve and stupid and wholly unprepared for this new direction her life was taking. If Maud, disposed to be friendly, had such an easy time getting information out of her and leading her to say things she didn't necessarily want known, what hope would she have with other, unknown, less friendly courtiers?

She wished Thomas was here.

But he wasn't, Clara reminded herself sternly as she jabbed her needle violently through the wool. Thomas was in Rome, Ben was on the other side of the palace, Marion was in Kent, Arthur was in Berkshire, Robin was in the ground, and she was on her own. Besides, she was a woman grown, and Thomas Cromwell would not always be around to hold her hand. She'd just have to handle this on her own, and learn how to be an asset to the cause instead of a liability (which was obviously what she was right now). She could start by not trusting everyone she encountered (even her future sister-in-law) and by guarding her tongue much more rigidly from here on out.

Thus resolved, Clara passed rest of the afternoon in relative silence, only speaking when questions were address to her directly, and then speaking as little as possible while keeping her head lowered and her eyes fixed on the pile of wool in her lap, the hem of which grew increasingly speckled with her blood. The Queen attended mass in the evening, so thankfully the ladies were able to put away the sewing. However, that did send Clara from one uncomfortable situation to another; while mass didn't require her to bleed, it did make her grind her teeth so hard a headache began to gather in her temples.

Deciding she wasn't feeling up to taking a meal in the great hall, where the noise would be overwhelming and where she would be under everyone's eye, she broke off from the other ladies when they were dismissed (making her awkward excuses to the few women, Maud included, who wanted to know where she was going and why she wasn't going to accompany them), and made her way to the small set of rooms allocated to Ben (and now occupied by her as well). They were thankfully empty, and she settled in with some bread and ale, and sat down to write some letters. She wrote to Marion, who seemed to settling in comfortably at the priory in Kent; she wrote to her steward, back in Leicestershire, who was overseeing the lands while she was in London; and she wrote to Arthur, living out in Peasemore.

Clara knew full well that Arthur could likely not read more than a fraction of the letters she sent, but she wanted to assure her son that he was always in her thoughts and that she loved him. It was also a way to indirectly pass information along to Spencer—such as the fact that she was now one of Queen Katherine's ladies of the bedchamber, and that he would therefore have a much harder time menacing her or cooking up a scandal out of nothing now that she was under the Queen's protection.

_Take that, Spencer_, she thought smugly, signing her name with a flourish. Spencer might have custody of her son and the friendship (however lukewarm) of the Boleyns, but Clara was now living at court, close to the beating heart of the kingdom. And she was richer, too. She had no doubt that these facts would grate on George Spencer's pride.

Though she would trade it all if she could only have her son back in her care.

Once the letters were sealed, Clara sat back for a moment and bit nervously at her lip. Should she write to Cromwell? She hadn't heard anything from him—but then, he was a busy man, and who knew how long it had taken him to get to Rome, and what occupied him there now. But he had said he'd write to her... should she wait until she heard from him, wait for him to move first? She didn't want to seem overeager, or pester him when he was busy with other important matters, or chase after him like a lovesick girl—especially not given her behaviour that night back in February.

But she missed him.

Clara hunched over and rested her forehead on the hard wood of her desk, groaning softly at the back of her throat. She'd been going round and round in her head about this for weeks, with no resolution in sight. Did she want to put herself out there, write to Thomas before she heard from him, and possibly show herself a fool? Or did she want to wait for him to take the first step? Or would that give him the impression that she didn't care? Was he waiting for her, perhaps mired in the same miserable uncertainty as she? Or was he just... busy? Had he forgotten her, and replaced her with a charming, beautiful, cultured Italian? She'd heard about the courtesans in Rome; how could she—shy, quiet, mousey—compare to such women?

But he said he'd wait, hadn't he? In his oblique way? He'd said he'd think about what he wanted from her, which implied he wouldn't replace her with another until he returned.

Unless he decided he didn't want anything from her.

Clara clenched her eyes shut, and banged her head once on the table. This was hellish. She thought she was done with this kind of uncertainty, that it had passed with her girlhood and been packed away upon her marriage. A naive thought, apparently; it seemed the heart's doubts were restricted to no age and afflicted matrons along with maidens. Did he, didn't he; should she, shouldn't she? A _pas de deux_ as old as time.

Distracted as she was with her own conflict and by the pervasive noises of a new place, Clara did not hear her brother's approach until he was already opening the door.

She jerked upright and looked over at her brother, who was raising his eyebrows at her as he shut the door. "What are you doing?" Benedict wondered, coming over and plopping into the chair opposite and tossing his cap onto the table.

"Writing letters," Clara replied, indicating the stack of letters next to her portable desk.

"I can see that, Clara," Ben replied dryly, apparently unimpressed by her new tendency to answer questions as shortly as possible. "What with the desk and the ink and... you know, the letters. What I meant was, what are you doing here, alone, writings letters on your first night here at court when you ought to be dancing or socialising or making friends?"

"Because it's loud," Clara replied shortly, keeping true to her newly resolved shortness. Then, because this was her brother, she added tartly, "And because one of the ladies with whom you would have me socialise is Maud Knivert. You remember her, do you not? Your betrothed?"

Ben froze, and stared at her like a startled rabbit for a moment. Then he grimaced, and winced a little. "Er," said he. "Sorry, Clare. I didn't think... er. I didn't think she'd be an issue."

"Just because you never think of her does not mean she never thinks of you," Clara snapped, feeling vexed with her brother for putting her in this situation and unsettled enough to let him know it. If Ben had warned her, if he'd taken some responsibility and talked to Maud before it came to this... but he hadn't, he'd ignored the problem, hoping it would go away, until it exploded onto the first Gage to come along: Clara.

She felt a little bit bad for thinking of Maud, who had been generally friendly and welcoming, in such unkind terms, but Clara wasn't feeling very charitable at the moment after being so skilfully played.

The hot feeling of embarrassment rose back up at the memory, and Clara lashed out at her brother again, hissing, "She spent the afternoon pumping me for information, and trying to find out why you've yet to introduce yourself to her despite being betrothed for nearly four months. You'd best thank God that I eventually realised what she was doing, or Lord only knows what I might've been led into saying." The humiliation nearly choked her, and she bent double to bang her head on the table again. "It was so embarrassing!" she wailed into the wood. "She played me like a lute, and I let her! I didn't realise what she was doing until I said something stupid, and I felt even more of an idiot after that."

When she straightened up, she saw Ben looking at her compassionately, with an understanding, slightly sheepish, expression on his face. "Welcome to court, sister," was all he was able to offer. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry you were put in that position." He paused a moment, then asked, "You didn't say anything... er, impolitic to the Knivert woman, did you?"

Clara gave her brother a flat sort of glower. "Other than confirming that yes, you're purposefully avoiding her and are not at all eager to marry her? No," she answered snidely. Then her irritation bled away, and she let her shoulders slump with a sigh. "Why did I ever think I should come here?" she lamented. "How am I ever going to manage?"

"You'll learn, Clare," Ben assured her, standing and moving around to press a kiss to her forehead. "You'll never be a mover or a shaker or one of the most powerful and successful courtiers, so it won't matter if you're cripplingly honest. Just keep your head down and do as you always do, and you'll manage just fine."

Torn between appreciation for her brother's encouragement, annoyance that he didn't think she'd be successful, and curious as to how and why honesty was some kind of disability, Clara just smiled and kept her mouth shut. That seemed to be equally important to success at court.

But as she bedded down for the night in her narrow quarters and listened to the movements and the speech and the lives of the people on the other side of the walls, she couldn't help but wonder what it was she'd gotten herself into, and if Thomas had really known what he was about when he encouraged her in her quest to come to court.

* * *

_26 March, 1530_

Katherine of Aragon rose from her prayers with a final genuflection, and entrusted her rosary to Lady Anne Clifford, one of her most trusted attendants of late, since her household had been slowly stripped of her Spanish ladies by time, marriage, and Wolsey. Then she emerged from her private chapel back into her rooms, where the rest of her ladies were still bent diligently over their sewing.

Her eyes sought out the faces of her newest attendants as the lot of them rose to curtsey to her as she moved to take a seat. Elizabeth Geste was over there by Jane Percy, embroidering some shirt cuffs; Catherine Darcy was bent over a doublet with Anne Dormer; Elizabeth Perris was doing something with a length of linen under the eyes of Alice Talbot; Maud Knivert, however, was sitting alone, stitching at a tapestry. Katherine cast her eyes about the room, searching for the last of the newcomers, wondering if the two of them had failed to get on. However, Clara Tyrell was nowhere to be seen.

Frankly, this concerned Katherine. She hated that her new ladies and their loyalty were always presumed suspect, but such were the times she was living in, at the centre of such a lonely, hostile court, forced to harbour potential vipers in her bosom. She had no suspicions about Geste or Darcy; their fathers were known to be devoted to her, and to Princess Mary. Perris, though, was potentially dangerous—a relation to the Howard family somewhere on the distaff side, and therefore with a connection, however, distant, to those Boleyn upstarts. Tyrell, likewise, had suspect connections (her brother had been one of Wolsey's creatures, and that particular branch of the Gage family had long been associated with the Dukes of Norfolk) and that she was missing now was... worrisome.

The Queen was about to call Lady Knivert over and inquire as to the whereabouts of Lady Tyrell—perhaps, to be fair to the lady, she had simply stepped out to use the privy—when one of her ushers stepped in and announced Sir Thomas More.

Katherine felt a true smile spreading her face, and welcomed Sir Thomas into her presence with an extended hand. "Sir Thomas, how good to see you."

Sir Thomas bent his knee to her as he took her hand, smiling up at her, and Katherine spared a moment for a swift, silent prayer of thanks that she at least had some true, loyal, honest men who were willing to follow their consciences and assist her. "God give you good afternoon, most gracious Majesty," he said warmly.

She gestured for him to rise, and led him over to a chair by the fire. "What brings you into my company today, Sir Thomas?" she inquired kindly as she gestured for one of her ladies to bring some wine. "Is there news? Are there new developments for the hearing?"

More shook his head. "None as such, my lady. Cardinal Campeggio is still laid low with gout, and nothing will happen until he is healthy once more. Nor is there any word from the embassy His Majesty sent to Rome, for good or ill. It seems, Majesty, that we are to wait upon Campeggio's health," he replied, sipping at the wine brought to him by Elizabeth Darrell.

"Little has changed, then," Katherine surmised, drinking her own wine and feeling slightly discouraged at how long this was taking, and how vexing it was to be stuck in this uncomfortable limbo, watching her husband fawn over that grasping Boleyn harlot. But however uncomfortable it was, she could—and would—endure. Patience was a skill she had learnt long ago, back in those dark days of her widowhood, after Prince Arthur had died and when no one could say with any certitude whether she would be the next Queen of England or sent back to Spain. If those years of waiting, in uncertainty and poverty, hadn't broken her, this wait would not either.

Even if it was terribly annoying.

"Indeed," agreed Sir Thomas, and it took Katherine a moment to realise he was agreeing with her statement about changes, and not with how annoying the wait was. Though it was possible he concurred with both. "I'm sorry I could not bring you better tidings."

Katherine smiled mildly. "I do not blame the messenger if the message is not to my liking," she assured him.

"Your Majesty is most gracious," Sir Thomas said earnestly. "As I have assured a young friend of mine who has recently joined your household. I came today not only to bring my greetings to your most august self, but also to see how she fares in her new occupation."

That piqued her curiosity, and Katherine arched her eyebrows upwards. She hadn't known that any of her new ladies were known to Thomas More. How reassuring! "Who is the lady, Sir Thomas? I shall have brought here to tell you herself how she fares," she offered with a warm smile, quite interested in knowing which lady it was. Surely a woman who had More's favour would be wholly trustable.

"Little Clara Tyrell," More replied, thoroughly surprising the Queen. She had not expected to hear that name pass his lips.

But she hid her scepticism and gave her visitor an apologetic look. "I am afraid at this moment I do not know where she is," Katherine admitted. She craned her neck and called, "Lady Knivert?"

Maud's head snapped up, and she immediately made her way over at the Queen's gesture. She dropped into a deep curtsey, then made a shallower one to Sir Thomas. "Your Majesty?" she said inquisitively.

"Do you know where is Lady Tyrell, Lady Knivert?" Katherine asked. "Sir Thomas wishes to speak with her."

"I must confess, Your Majesty, that I do not," Maud admitted sheepishly, looking embarrassed, a slow flush crept across her cheeks as she confessed to having lost the lady she was intended to mentor. "I fear I offended her," she added awkwardly after a moment. "Your Majesty may find more intelligence from another lady with whom she is less upset."

Katherine made a mental note to sort out whatever problems were between the Ladies Tyrell and Knivert later, once Sir Thomas had gone, and was about to ask if Maud was aware if Lady Tyrell got on better with anyone else when Sir Thomas spoke first. "I wouldn't worry overmuch, Lady Knivert. Clara is unable to hold a grudge, and will likely forgive you within the week," he assured her kindly. "And if you cannot find her, check in the window seats or behind the curtains. If she is not within these rooms, check the chapel next. According to my daughter, and from what I know of her habits, you will find our Mistress Mouse hiding somewhere there."

With a nod, Katherine dispatched Maud to check the hidden alcoves and see if Clara Tyrell had secreted herself there. Then she turned back to Sir Thomas. "You know her well, do you, Sir Thomas? This 'mistress mouse', you call her?" she asked curiously, wanting as much information on this lady as she could gather from a reputable source. Yes, she trusted Sir Thomas' judgment, but she could not forget that she had suspected the lady at first, and wanted to know more to inform her own judgement.

"Perhaps not 'well', but she has been known to me for many years, and has written faithfully to my daughter for at least that long," Sir Thomas replied with a knowing smile, apparently understanding Katherine's unspoken desires as he kept speaking. "To my knowledge, she is terribly shy, equally awkward and as naive and baldly honest as a child of six, but clever enough otherwise. She can't hold a candle to my Meg, of course, despite her own ambitions; but she has sense enough to look up to her and take her as a model," he said, practically glowing with pride for his daughter. Katherine could well understand how he could be fond of a lady who so recognised the worth of and deferred to the wisdom of one's beloved child. Upon a moment of reflection, Sir Thomas added, talking once more of Lady Tyrell, "She can be as timid as a mouse, but will dig in her heels like a mule if it concerns her son."

"Yes, what happened to her son?" Katherine queried immediately, glad that Sir Thomas had brought up a subject about which she was very curious. "I asked her about him, but she was not very forthcoming. Though this might be because she is, as you say, so shy."

"I also suspect she was wary of injuring your Majesty's feelings," Sir Thomas offered quietly. "Her son's wardship was sold to Master George Spencer only through the offices and intervention of Lord Rochford."

And suddenly, Lady Tyrell's reticence was beginning to make a little more sense—especially as Sir Thomas elaborated about the circumstances which had brought Lady Tyrell to London. Once he was finished with his tale, Katherine was feeling much more charitably inclined towards Clara Tyrell, and was resolved to go and seek her out as soon as possible.

Sir Thomas, having finished his illumination of Lady Tyrell's character as he knew it, made some inquiries about the health and educational progress of Princess Mary, and the Queen happily expounded on what she'd heard about her beloved daughter, who to all accounts was growing into a most accomplished young lady. Soon after, More took his leave and departed, asking that his greetings and well-wishes be passed along to Lady Tyrell, whenever they found her.

Once he had left, Katherine turned to look at Lady Knivert, who was hovering discreetly in the background. "Did you find her?" the Queen asked.

Maud gave a curtsey and shook her head. "She was not anywhere within your apartments, Your Majesty," she replied, "and I wished to wait to check the chapel until I obtained leave."

Katherine rose and straightened her brocade skirts as all her ladies stood likewise, and then gathered her entourage of ushers, grooms, and ladies (including Maud Knivert) and swept out of her rooms, making a swift beeline towards the chapel. She stepped through the doors accompanied only by her ladies, and took a moment to dip her fingers in the holy water and genuflect before bending her knee towards the altar and the host thereon. Only after she had done so did she pause to look around the chapel in search of her missing lady.

It took the Queen a moment to find her, though the chapel was nearly empty at this time of day; being so empty, it was poorly lit and shadowy, and Lady Tyrell was still clad wholly in black. But eventually her eyes alighted on the only figure in the pews near the left side of the chapel, knee bent and head lowered, on the very edge of a circle of light cast by a candelabra. There was her wayward attendant.

Signalling for her ladies to remain where they were, Katherine made her way over to where Lady Tyrell stood, knee still bent and eyes lowered. "Here you are, Lady Tyrell," the Queen commented quietly, gesturing for the younger woman to sit before taking her own seat beside her. "Sir Thomas suggested that this was likely where you were. He stopped by to see you, and was most disappointed when you were not there."

"Forgive me, your Majesty," Lady Tyrell squeaked quietly, keeping her eyes trained on the stone floor and fidgeting a little in the pew. "I know I should not have been absent, I know I should've been in your apartments with the others, and I'm very sorry, I didn't mean to shirk my duties, but I received some news from my son and needed some spiritual comfort... not that it excuses me, I know I did wrong, please forgive me..."

The Queen was beginning to understand how Sir Thomas More could describe a woman grown and a mother as a 'child of six'. Lady Tyrell's nervous apologies had the flavour of a disobedient child about to be called on the carpet. Katherine moved quickly to assuage her anxiety, soothing gently, "I am not angry, Lady Tyrell. Of course you are allowed to seek the comfort of Our Lord whenever you feel the need for it. Was it very bad news, from your child?" she asked sympathetically. "Is he ill?"

Lady Tyrell looked down again, and this time Katherine followed her gaze to a letter clutched in her hands—hands which the queen noticed were trembling a little. Her heart softened towards this young widow, so painfully frightened and trying so hard not to show it.

"No, he's not ill, praise God," Lady Tyrell replied.

"Then why do you sound so unhappy?" Katherine probed gently, trying to draw the lady out of her shyness. Perhaps she would come to be more open, now that it was only the two of them alone in the quiet, relative privacy of the chapel?

Lady Tyrell bit her lower lip and seemed to struggle with herself, flicking her dark eyes up to the Queen's face and then back to the letter in her hands. "I... my son is unhappy, your Majesty," she finally said, voice whispery and quiet. "He is miserable, and thus so am I."

Queen Katherine nodded in understanding. Though she was unhappy to see the lady so sad, she was slightly pleased that Lady Tyrell was beginning to open up. It seemed Sir Thomas was right, and that the lady was very timid, presenting herself better when there were fewer eyes on her.

"Why did you come to court, then?" she asked, wanting to test her new lady, and see if she was as true as Sir Thomas implied. "Why did you not stay with your child?"

"I wanted to," Lady Tyrell said miserably. "But they took him away from me. I... did Sir Thomas not tell you, my lady?" she wondered, tilting her head to the side and actually meeting Katherine's eyes for the first time since their introduction. They were wide, dark eyes; very clear, and very open, with her nervousness and her curiosity shining bright in them.

"He told some things," Katherine demurred, wanting to hear things from Lady Tyrell herself, and to see how closely her account matched Sir Thomas'. "But he did not say much."

Lady Tyrell's face fell, though she immediately tried to hide it and paste on an expression of unconcern. "Oh," she said, and she couldn't quite hide the glum note in her voice, either.

"Perhaps you might tell me?" Katherine prompted softly. "Sir Thomas did mention something about the Boleyn family, so you need have no fears about bringing up that name."

That made Lady Tyrell's tense shoulders relax a little. "Yes, your Majesty. I... well, I suppose the whole matter began with the death of my husband. A few months after his passing, I received a letter which informed me that, contrary to Robin's will, our son was to be sent to Berkshire as the ward of George Spencer, who is kin to the Boleyn family through Mary's husband," she began. "I challenged that decision, and came to London to fight. Sir Thomas and some other... friends gave me good advice, and helped me with the legal jargon, but it came to naught. Well, perhaps not naught," she allowed, frowning a little. "I... well. I scored some points, and so did Spencer, but no one was really the victor."

"How so?" Katherine inquired, hoping to spur Lady Tyrell onwards. Thus far, her account was matched with what she'd heard from More.

"Spencer got the wardship of my son, and his physical person—which was all that I wanted," Lady Tyrell explained, her soft voice going rather sour. "But I received control of the Tyrell lands, held in trust for Arthur until he's of age—and that was all that Spencer wanted. He's rather a spendthrift, Master Spencer. So much so that he couldn't afford the wardship fees.

"But Spencer went running to Lord Rochford." Lady Tyrell made a face, wrinkling her nose and scowling. "If Rochford hadn't stuck his nose into it, I would've won. If he hadn't been there, I could've convinced Spencer to cede full guardianship to me, or perhaps paid him some kind of pension from the lands as long as he left Arthur to me... or perhaps even if I'd done nothing, he just wouldn't have been able to afford the fees and nothing would've come of it. But Spencer brought Rochford into it and ruined everything!" complained the lady.

"In return for joint custody, I paid the wardship fees myself. But when we set down our agreement Spencer—with Rochford's support—threw in a caveat," she said hotly, her plain face twisting with anger. "He said that any immoral behaviour on my part would revoke our agreement and loose me my rights. And then he threatened to start whatever rumours he needed—out of nothing—if I 'threw my weight around'! The cheek of him!" she fumed, clearly indignant. Katherine well understood her anger, and sympathised wholeheartedly, though she found the visible signs of it to be rather amusing and oddly adorable—a fierce little mouse, just like Sir Thomas had said.

Lady Tyrell kept speaking, her pale fingers twisting and fiddling with the parchment letter. "A friend advised me to seek a place at court in your Majesty's household, so that Spencer would be unable to start pernicious rumours out of nothing. Even such a stupid man as he would think twice before attacking, without cause or evidence, one of the queen's ladies!" Then her brain seemed to catch up with her mouth, and she went red. "Er, begging your Majesty's pardon," she squeaked. "Of course I mean to serve you loyally, my lady, I meant no disrespect, but... well, I can't let that man take my son from me. Any more than he already has," she added in a low grumble.

Katherine couldn't keep from smiling. As baldly honest as a child of six indeed. Thankfully, Lady Tyrell's account of things matched Sir Thomas' nearly perfectly (though she had left out the part about being personally menaced by Lord Rochford to the point of swooning). And thus it seemed that she could indeed trust this young woman; Sir Thomas had vouched for her, and she had proved herself honest. Katherine was pleased; at least she wouldn't have to worry about this one turning out to be a spy, especially given her feelings towards the Boleyn family, who had conspired to take away her only child.

"I understand," Katherine said sympathetically. "And I certainly do not blame you for whatever you need to do to protect your rights to your child. Though I of course do not need to worry about my daughter being raised by someone I dislike, or worry about being kept away from her, I do understand how you feel."

Lady Tyrell looked up, blinking a few times, and a small answering smile began to curve her lips. It was still tentative and nervous, but at least progress was being made. "Does it ever get easier?" she asked frankly. "Being away from your child? Letting him or her be raised by strangers?"

"Not really, no," Katherine replied, answering Lady Tyrell's honesty with her own, now that she had established that the odds were very good on this new attendant being trustworthy. "Perhaps the pain dulls with time, but it never leaves. All you can do is write, and visit." Privately, the Queen considered that she was in a better circumstance than Lady Tyrell; at least Mary was being raised and cared for by people she trusted and esteemed, rather than someone she hated.

The lady sighed inaudibly, and folded her letter back into a more compact form before shoving it into her pocket and looking up at the altar. Though Lady Tyrell was trying to adopt an expression of courtly cordiality, the conflict she was feeling was very apparent on her face, and Katherine was once more reassured that she was in no danger from this woman, not when her feelings showed so clearly in her face and eyes.

"It is hard, sometimes, is it not, Lady Tyrell? To reconcile yourself to God's will," the Queen commented softly. "Especially when it hurts you so."

Lady Tyrell nodded silently, understanding gleaming in her dark eyes. "Yes, Your Majesty," she agreed.

The two of them sat in silence for a few moments more before Katherine stood. "Come now, Lady Tyrell," she said as the woman stood with her, "let us return. I hope, in time, you will come to be more comfortable at court, and even enjoy your service here. And friends, I think, will help you," Katherine added leadingly, cutting her eyes to where Maud Knivert sat in the back of the chapel with the other ladies. Judging by the way Lady Tyrell's cheeks flushed, she'd understood the Queen's subtle encouragement. With a smile, Katherine added, "I will pray for your son."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Lady Tyrell murmured, and followed the Queen meekly and quietly out of the chapel, and back to her apartments.

And though Katherine knew that little had changed, she felt a little more hopeful now than she had in the morning.

* * *

Though it was often a burden as well as a blessing, Clara currently had cause to be deeply grateful for her hypersensitive hearing. Without it, she would not have been able to hear the Queen's approach before Her Majesty entered the chapel, and thus would've been caught reading a book of John Skelton's poetry in church. Which was probably not the best impression to make on the extremely devout queen.

But thankfully, her hearing was hypersensitive, and she'd been able to hear Queen Katherine's approach and stuff the book into her pocket before the lady even passed the door of the chapel. (Though perhaps that wasn't very hard, given the way the Queen's presence was announced at every doorway she passed.) The fortnight-old letter from Berkshire (which she was carrying around as both a bookmark and an oft-needed reminder as to why she was even bothering to live at court in the first place) didn't fit, though it had provided a useful reason as to why she was shirking her duties (truthfully, because she was sick to death of sewing and had probably lost at least a pint of blood through her fingertips during the past few days). And while Clara did feel a little bit guilty about misleading Her Majesty about her reasons for seeking solitude... well, it wasn't as though she'd never done it before.

She'd been very young when she realised that the church was quieter than most other places, and barely seven when she realised that if she did most of her reading in said church, people would think she was praying and be much less likely to drag her away to do other, less interesting things. Like her tendency to gossip, it wasn't an element of her character that Clara was particularly proud of, but it was one that she found too useful to overcome.

She was a bit sorry she'd missed seeing Thomas More, though. She would've liked to have said hello, and showed him that she was much as she always was, and that she was behaving well and was thus far in no danger. The fact that he'd remembered her and stopped to see her at all made her feel a bit giddy, like she had bubbles rising up from her stomach and tickling her heart. Though her ebullience was slightly restrained by the knowledge that he apparently hadn't said much about her at all—the Queen hadn't known anything about her, and thus hadn't heard anything from Sir Thomas at all.

Well, at least he'd thought of her.

Unlike some Thomases she could name.

"So, Mistress Mouse," Maud Knivert, who had been walking beside her as they returned to the Queen's apartments, began tentatively, voice kind, "have you any skill with tapestries? I am working on one at the moment, and would be grateful for your help."

Clara bit back a scowl. Why on earth did Sir Thomas have to resurrect that old nickname? And here at court, too, of all places, where she'd hoped to have a fresh start? What would it take to lay that epithet in the ground for good?

"I will gladly help you with your tapestry, Lady Knivert, provided you never call me Mistress Mouse again," she eventually replied, deciding to respond to Maud's overture, shed her resentment, and try to make friends. The Queen was right, she did need some (and want some; she'd been rather lonely thus far, when she wasn't terrified and uncomfortable). Besides, it wasn't Maud's fault Clara had learnt a harsh lesson at her hands; better Maud than someone less welcoming, Clara supposed.

Maud looked a little surprised at Clara's reply, and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as they passed through a doorway behind the Queen. "Forgive me, I didn't know... Sir Thomas said," she fumbled awkwardly as Her Majesty and the rest of them spilled back into the royal apartments.

"I met Sir Thomas when I was a maid of honour to the Duchess of Norfolk, and everyone was still calling me 'Mouse'," Clara explained as she followed Maud back to her tapestry. "But that was more than a decade ago, and no one really calls me that anymore. Except Sir Thomas. I wish he would not," she confessed. "It was a childish name, and I have long since put away childish things. And I dislike being called 'mouse'," she added sourly.

"I can quite understand. Some things are like that," Maud commiserated, her plain face creasing with understanding. "My cousins still call me 'Maudy Thursday'. Just when you think everyone's forgotten, someone brings it back and starts the whole mess over again. If only they would let such names die a natural death."

Clara nodded in fervent agreement, and accepted the needle Maud offered her as they settled down by the tapestry frame. Their conversation was still tentative, avoiding any mention of Benedict Gage or Arthur Tyrell, and centred mainly around the past and their respective childhoods. Maud had come to court to serve the Queen as a Maid of Honour nearly seven years ago, thanks to a cousin of hers who was one of the King's closest companions.

But even as they laughed quietly together (especially when Maud finally took the needle from Clara's hand and banished her to untangle the embroidery floss), Clara was still mindful of her resolution towards greater reticence and ensured that she took care to mind the words that passed her lips. It wasn't really something she'd ever had to worry about before, and it made her feel tired, like she'd aged years in the span of a few days.

There was also the awareness that she wasn't as good at arranging her face and hiding her inner feelings as she thought she was. Clara knew that during her tête-à-tête with the queen, she'd been displaying far too much of her actual thoughts on her face and in her eyes; there was, apparently, a world of difference between arranging your face when you were alone with a trusted friend, and arranging your face when you were sitting an arm's length away from the Queen of England while she had all her attention focussed entirely on you. She hoped this would be something that would improve with practise. It was... humbling, Clara supposed was the word, to realise how very inexperienced and insignificant and altogether unready for this life she was.

_I suppose this is part of putting away childish things_, she thought inwardly, trying to unknot a skein of green thread from a tangle of yellow. _I just didn't know growing up would make me feel so small_.

* * *

_28 March, 1529_

Clara missed Thomas Cromwell most on Sundays. Oh, she missed him during other times of the week as well (and especially on the days when she sallied forth from Whitehall to tutor Alice and Joan), but Sundays were the days when his absence stung the most. They had used to spend Sundays together, attending Lutheran sermons before retiring back to Austin Friars to discuss them. Those were good days.

This—her first Sunday at court—was not a good day. Not only was she bereft of Thomas Cromwell, she was also forced to suffer far too much noise, far too much incense, far too many people... far too much Catholicism. And, worst of all, Lord Rochford had _looked_ at her.

Clara and Thomas Boleyn hadn't crossed paths much at all since she had come to court. This wasn't precisely a surprise; after all, Clara was in the Queen's service and Boleyn was the father of the woman who was attempting to replace her. When they were in the same room (usually when Clara was passing through one gallery or another on an errand or trailing along after someone else), Boleyn didn't deign to notice her at all, his arctic gaze sliding past her as though she was scenery. But today, as he passed by the pew she occupied with the other ladies-in-waiting, Thomas Boleyn paused in his steps, met her eyes for a moment, and smiled.

It had made her shiver.

Thankfully, no one had asked her about it, and Rochford hadn't looked at her again. But still, Clara found it very discomfiting. She fidgeted all through mass, and the moment the Queen dismissed her ladies to do as they pleased, she made her excuses to the others and headed for the apartment she shared with Benedict, where she could be alone and escape the scrutiny of the courtiers—including Thomas Boleyn, Viscount Rochford. What was he doing, looking at her like that? Was he trying to frighten her, or send her a message, or imply some kind of oblique threat? She didn't know, and resolutely put the matter out of her mind as she settled down with Christine de Pizan's _Book of the City of Ladies _and kicked off her shoes.

Which was how Ralph Sadler found her, later.

She was so engrossed in her book (one of her old favourites) that she didn't realise the footsteps she was hearing in the corridor were coming towards her own door until she heard the soft knock on the wood. With a hissed oath, she quickly marked her place in the book with a bit of ribbon and grabbed for her shoes. Lord only knew who was at the door, and she couldn't very well greet him (or her, she supposed) without being fully dressed. Perhaps in Leicestershire she could've gotten away with such informality (especially if she took care to make sure her skirts hid her feet), but never, ever at court.

She only had one shoe laced when the person at the door knocked again, and called, "Lady Tyrell?" through the door.

"One moment, I pray you!" Clara called back, shoving her foot into her other shoe and forgoing the laces as she stood and tried to straighten her dress and her hood before hurrying over to the door. The voice sounded vaguely familiar to her, but she couldn't quite recall whose it was, and she didn't have time to try and figure it out, either.

Of course, when she finally opened the door, she wished she'd realised who it was sooner, and pretended not to be there.

She froze like a spooked deer when she registered Ralph Sadler's ginger hair and lanky body in the doorway. The memory of their last encounter surged forth, and Clara realised that the last time Thomas Cromwell's chief clerk had laid eyes on her, she'd had her skirts up around her waist and her hand halfway down his master's breeches.

Her cheeks went brick red and she dropped her eyes down to the floor. "Master Sadler," she squeaked after a long moment of awkward silence.

"Lady Tyrell," was Sadler's reply, and he sounded at least as awkward as she felt. "I... have a message for you, madam. If I might..."

He trailed off, and Clara suddenly realised that they were in full view of anyone who might wander by, and that any letter Sadler was giving her was likely something she didn't want anyone else knowing about. With a quick glance around her surroundings as she listened for anyone coming or going or being near, Clara ushered Ralph into the room quickly and shut the door behind him. It was only after she'd latched it behind him did she realise that she was once again alone in a room with a single man unrelated to her, and that this was the exact kind of behaviour she ought to be avoiding.

Judging by Ralph's tense posture and the way he was pointedly not looking at her when she turned around, he was aware of it as well. Or perhaps he, too, was remembering the circumstances of their last meeting. Once the door was closed, he immediately produced a letter from his doublet. "This arrived for you, Lady Tyrell," he said quietly, extending it towards her.

Clara approached him slowly and cautiously, wondering what he was thinking, whether or not he scorned her inwardly as some kind of wanton harlot. But Ralph Sadler was pushed to the back of her mind as soon as she saw the direction written on the front of the letter, and realised who had written it, and where it had come from.

Thomas had written to her.

She whisked the letter out of Ralph's hand immediately, a happy grin overtaking the mortified blush on her face. The letter felt as though it was more than one leaf of parchment, and she brought it to her nose, wondering if it would have the scent of Rome clinging to it still (although, admittedly, she did not know, personally, what Rome smelled like). She wanted to break the seal now and start reading... except Ralph was still here... and he was watching her sniff her letter.

Her face went red again, and she wished she could sink into the floor and disappear when he arched a brow over a pale eye. Thankfully, he didn't make any quips or jests, since she probably would've keeled over dead from embarrassment, though his lips quirked upwards slightly at one corner. However, his voice was even as he said, "When you have your reply ready, find a way to place it in my hands, and I will have it included with the dispatches. The next one will be sent on Wednesday."

"Thank you," Clara managed around her constricted vocal chords, feeling the heat still lingering in her face. Though Master Sadler was being courteous and kind, she still felt violently uncomfortable and wished he'd just go away. His presence reminded her of her prior bad behaviour, and how her current behaviour might be seen as bad behaviour, and especially how she would continue to behave badly if she only had the opportunity. And mostly, he was keeping her from reading her letter.

Ralph either read something off her face or understood that she wanted to read her letter in privacy. He opened his mouth; then seemed to reconsider, and shut it again and offered her a bow before moving towards the door. Clara trailed after him, wanting to listen and make sure that there was no one in the corridor to see him emerging from the room, and thus nearly careened into his chest when he stopped suddenly and turned back around to face her.

"What are you doing?" he demanded abruptly, looking down at her. She hadn't realised how much taller than her he was; by her reckoning, Ralph was at least as tall as Thomas. "What do you want?"

_What?_ "I'm just seeing you to the door," Clara replied confusedly. "I... er, I don't want anyone seeing you leave and realise that we were alone..."

Ralph blinked at her a few times, leading her to conclude that they were apparently having two different conversations, before shaking his head. "That isn't what I meant."

Clara bit her tongue before she could retort, _well, you weren't very clear_. It must have showed on her face, though, since Ralph's expression took on a wry cast. "My apologies, Lady Tyrell," he said contritely, but his generous mouth was still pressed into a firm line and his jaw was set. He was still adamant about getting an answer to whatever question he hadn't been clear about. "What I meant was, what are you doing with Master Cromwell?"

Her subsiding blush roared right back, and Clara gave Ralph the haughtiest glare she was capable of. It probably wasn't much of a glare, considering she was mortified and her face was brick-red, but the general gist was conveyed fluently. Especially when she replied coldly, "I don't think that's any of your business, Master Sadler."

Master Sadler's glare was much more impressive—especially since he drew himself up to his full height and towered over her, glowering down at her with eyes as hard and cold as chips of ice—and when he spoke his voice was deep and flat. "I have been in the Cromwell household for more than ten years, and Master Cromwell is as much a father to me as my own. If you mean to use him or hurt him or trifle with his affections in any manner, I will do everything in my power to destroy you."

Though she had no intentions of doing any of these things and knew Ralph would have no cause to carry through with his threat, it still made her shiver. "I have no such intentions," she assured him, craning her neck a little to meet those icy blue-grey-green eyes, which thawed as she spoke without artifice. "He is one of my friends, you know; I wouldn't knowingly hurt him." Then something Ralph had said to her registered, and she smiled hopefully. "He has affections for me?"

Ralph squinted at her for a moment, as though trying to ascertain if she was in earnest, before he rolled his eyes, his face creasing in a faint smile. "I assure you, Lady Tyrell, that if he had no affections for you, he would not have dared put his hands where he... put his hands," he said, slightly halting at the oblique reference to the clinch of months past. Reassuringly, as well, a pink flush crept across his sharp cheekbones; at least Clara wasn't the only one blushing, although Ralph didn't flush with the same violence.

Then again, he hadn't been the one spread out on the floor, either.

She ducked her head and smiled sheepishly, wishing she didn't have to wear these hoods at court because now her flushed cheeks were visible to all, whereas before her hair would've given her a measure of concealment. She turned the letter over and over in her hands, wondering what Thomas had written to her. Wondering what she might write back. Wondering if he made reference to the nature of his affections, and what he intended to do with them.

"He likes you," Ralph said again, bringing her out of her contemplation. Clara raised her gaze from the floor and looked up at him, and he was still smiling a little, though his brow was a little creased yet. "Don't hurt him."

The request was quiet and earnest, and Clara suddenly realised just how much Ralph Sadler cared about Thomas Cromwell—how much all Thomas' family did. If she did decide that she wanted him, in whatever capacity, she had better be certain about it, because if she hurt Thomas or pulled away from him or changed her mind, she'd also lose her friendships at Austin Friars, and leave herself open to whatever vengeance Ralph would extract. (And Richard would probably help him, too.)

She wasn't sure what to say about it, though, since she wasn't certain what she wanted to do. To be with Thomas was to risk losing her son, and Arthur was everything to her.

But... Thomas.

This was the same conundrum she'd been faced with for months, and it didn't seem to be resolving itself any time soon. Still, she nodded silently, in acknowledgement of Ralph's point.

Ralph either noticed something on her face (she really had to work on that) or perhaps tacitly understood that she'd given him all she could. He smiled faintly at her and said, "Enjoy your letter. Remember, the dispatches leave on Wednesday." Then he carefully opened the door a crack, peered out at the corridor, and then slipped quietly out of the room.

Clara silently blew out a breath before going back to the bed and collapsing down onto it, still clutching her letter. She kicked her shoes back off and moved Christine de Pizan before settling back in and looking at the letter on her lap, running her finger over the writing, before flipping it over and breaking the seal and unfolding the parchment.

_My very dear Clara_, it began, and a smile spread across her face as she let Thomas' words wrap around her, and looked at Rome through his eyes.

* * *

_22 March, 1529_

Rome was not at all as Thomas Cromwell remembered it. Perhaps Rome was the Eternal City, as the poets said, but that didn't mean it didn't change.

It wasn't only the passage of time which had changed the city, though of course it had. Nor was it the fact that he himself had changed, though of course he had. The last time he'd trod these streets, he'd been a young man of no real account, whereas now he was an established man and a father and here on important business for the king of England. And back then, he'd been a devout Catholic, while now he was a devout Lutheran. It even went beyond the marks left by the marauding Imperial troops, two years ago, though it did have something to do with it. Because the most striking change, for Cromwell, was the feel of the city in the wake of its sacking.

It was... more tense in Rome, now—more harried, more defensive and defiant. This was a city that was even now under attack, and which was also very aware of just how vulnerable it was. The air of bravado and unashamed decadence he remembered was much diminished; the Romans were now all too aware of their own mortality—how easily their walls could be breached and their city laid waste—and of how tenuous a grasp they now kept on the hearts and minds of Christendom, what with the rise of Lutheranism and the challenge they issued, taking the Catholic Church to account for its poor morals.

But at the same time... the more things changed, the more they remained the same. _Nihil sub sole novum—_nothing new under the sun. Rome was still Rome: still controlled by the Church, still sporting a veil of virtue over its greed and opportunism. And if you wanted results, you still had to grease palms with liberal amounts of money.

He'd been in Rome for nearly a fortnight, now. It had taken him three weeks to arrive—weeks of cold and rain and frozen mud as he rode hard across France. Once he arrived, he settled into a small set of rooms that was set aside for English ambassadors, which was part of a larger palazzo in a part of the city with which he was rather unfamiliar. It was far more affluent than the sections of Rome he'd previously visited.

Once he was settled in, he presented himself at the Vatican as an embassy from His Majesty the King of England. To his complete lack of surprise, he was fobbed off by one of the Pope's household, who gave him pretty promises and assurances of friendship, but led him in a merry dance and did not permit him access to Clement. His Holiness was at prayer; he was eating; he was resting; he was with another ambassador; he was hunting; he was riding; he was hearing confession. He was doing anything and everything under the sun, but he was not available to meet with the Englishman right now.

Cromwell had rather expected such a thing, and admired the cleverness behind such a strategy even as he was annoyed at the delay. He wrote as much to the king in his reports back to England, which he composed after the seventh time he was denied access to the Pope. Thus stymied (at least for the moment), he instead began to make contacts and revive old friendships.

Naturally, the first place he went to was the Frescobaldi family, his old friends. Their fortunes had much fallen in the years he'd been away, since the ascendancy of the Medici had pushed out many of the other merchant and banking families, both from Rome and from Florence, from whence both families came. Franceso Frescobaldi was there still; the ranking member of the family in Rome was Giovanni, Franceso's nephew.

Though Cromwell had never met Giovanni Frescobaldi, and Frescobaldi had never met Thomas Cromwell, they both knew Francesco Frescobaldi, and that was enough to gain the Englishman welcome into the house. Though the fare was plain it was pleasant, and the conversation was enlightening—especially as his long-disused Italian was taken out for a run.

"Bah, Clement is an old waffler," Giovanni scoffed over a dish of wild boar. "He wants to please everyone, and so pleases no one. He'll give you the run-around until you give up and go home, you mark my words."

"And if I were to give chase to him down?" Cromwell inquired in what he knew was absolutely wretched Italian, offering another apologetic look to his host. His Italian was very rusty, but it was improving drastically the more he used it.

Thankfully, his repeated grammatical errors seemed to amuse his companions, and they all took turns correcting him. This time, it was Giovanni's wife Lucia's turn, and she chided him kindly, "'And if I were to chase him down'."

Cromwell repeated her words, and Giovanni eyed him for a moment. His eyes were like keen black buttons, and he idly rubbed his rather weak chin as he took his guest's measure. "You would need to go through the Cardinals and officers of the Curia, if you were to chase down the Pope," he finally replied.

"The King of England is prepared to very generous," Cromwell replied, implying directly that he was prepared to pay for access to the Pope, and more obliquely that he knew well enough how these things worked.

Giovanni seemed to understand, and he grinned and saluted Cromwell with his goblet. "That is good."

"And do you know who the King need to be generous with?" Cromwell inquired delicately.

"Anyone without the surname of Medici," Giovanni grumbled, before giving more specific names. There were the usual Roman families still holding sway in the Curia—Orsini, Farnese, Sforza, della Rovere, Colonna... "But on second thought, don't talk to the Colonnas," he decided. "Clement's still out of sorts with the lot, after what Pompeo Colonna did while he was Vice-Chancellor. He wouldn't likely listen to anything a Colonna had to say, even if they were telling him where to find the Holy Grail," he snorted.

"_Nihil sub sole novum_," Cromwell pointed out dryly, making Frescobaldi snort. The great Roman families were always falling in and out with the Pope, and with one another. "Who's Vice-Chancellor now?" he wanted to know. The Vice-Chancellor of the Holy Roman Church was one of the highest-ranking officials of the Curia, and naturally a very obvious avenue to take for access to the pontiff.

"Ippolito de Medici, the Pope's nephew," Giovanni replied. "But don't look for him for help."

"Why, is he so loyal to his family?" Cromwell asked, eyebrows flying upwards.

"No, but he is off in Hungary," was the answer.

"Ah."

The subject shifted then in another direction, towards the cloth trade in which both Cromwell and Frescobaldi had a stake, and remained among less loaded topics for the rest of the meal. But later, when Giovanni and Thomas were sitting by the fire alone, the conversation shifted slowly back around, as they could be less delicate now that the women were gone.

"Your house came through the Sack well," Cromwell commented, drawing his glance away from a broken window which had not yet been mended. "Were you here?"

"Mother Mary, no," Giovanni replied vehemently. "We left the city the minute that German army came within twenty leagues. Lucia has family in L'Aquila, so we closed up the house and left."

"Was it very messy when you returned?"

Giovanni threw up his hands. "Like you wouldn't believe. All the windows broken, the yard all torn up, most of the furniture had been chopped up for firewood... and it seems those German beasts don't understand the use of a proper privy, since there was enough shit around to fertilize all the fields of Naples. It took us months to get the house fit for habitation again. Thanks be to God, though, that they didn't find the strongboxes."

"And the rest of your household? Did they live through it well enough?"

"For the most part. A few of our grooms vanished and never returned, and a few maidservants likewise vanished," Giovanni admitted. He heaved a sigh. "_Requiescat in pace_," he intoned, crossing himself. Cromwell mirrored his gesture after a moment, and then took another swig of wine to wash the Catholicism out of his mouth.

The two men were silent for a moment, before Giovanni broke the peace with an extremely blunt question: "Is it true your king wants to marry his whore?"

Cromwell had a feeling that this would not be the last time he'd have to answer this question. Thankfully, he'd prepared an answer for it long before he arrived in Rome: "The lady of whom you've heard is not his whore, and has nothing to do with this matter. King Henry means to annul his marriage due to the demands of his own conscience and his need for an heir male. He is of a mind to make a French alliance and will likely remarry accordingly, once he's got his annulment."

Giovanni didn't seem to believe him, but Cromwell ensured that nothing other than polite cordiality showed on his face. Finally, the Italian gave an amused huff of laughter and subsided. "You know this will not be easy, this errand of yours," he remarked. "Not with things in Italy being what they are. English gold might not speak louder than Imperial swords."

"Churchmen are always short on cash," Cromwell pointed out.

"And what use is gold if you're not alive to spend it?" was Frescobaldi's retort.

"I'm hoping the men I talk to do not follow that thread of thought to its logical end," Cromwell admitted with a slight grimace, making his host chortle with laughter again. "How likely is that, Signor Frescobaldi?"

"It depends on who you ask," Giovanni shrugged. "I, personally, would talk to the Camerlengo, Agostino Spinola." The Camerlengo of the Holy Roman See was one of the high-ranking officers of the Curia who was essentially in charge of the treasury, and therefore very powerful and important indeed. "He has the Pope's ear, and he will be very open to your king's generosity after the treasury was drained nearly dry by his predecessor."

"Who was that? His predecessor?"

"Francesco Armellini de Medici." Giovanni snorted and rolled his eyes. "You'd think a Medici would be better with figures."

"_Non tutti quelli che hanno lettere sono savi,_" offered Cromwell wryly—'not all those who are learned are wise'—and Giovanni threw his head back and laughed.

"Truth," the Italian agreed. "We all hated him, anyway—and the Romans themselves hated him the most. Spinola's decent, though... and probably in dire need of ready cash, after de Medici's mismanagement, and with that courtesan of his."

"Courtesan?" Cromwell repeated curiously.

"Mistress," Giovanni supplied, as though he hadn't understood the word.

"No, no, I understand the concept," Cromwell assured him. "Who is she, this courtesan of his? I may have to send her some presents, and see if I can't get to him through her. It's a pity Clement doesn't have a mistress himself, or I'd be sending her presents, too," he added dryly.

Giovanni grinned and reached over to slap a hand to Cromwell's shoulder. "Signor Cromwell, you think like an Italian."

Cromwell came away from the dinner with Frescobaldi with a list of names and the location of the villa where the Camerlengo kept his courtesan, and over the next few days, when he wasn't checking in at the Vatican and being promptly rebuffed, he was meeting with Cardinals and greasing palms. He heard lots of pretty promises and the gold fell swiftly from his fingers; only time would tell if his efforts would bear fruit. At least he was well-schooled in patience.

Besides, what other options did he have? Wait for the Pope to see him? That would be a long time in coming; he'd likely be forced to return home to England with his tail between his legs long before the Pope willingly granted him an audience. No, he had to be proactive if he wanted to prove himself to the King. He only hoped that his master could be patient.

Oddly enough, his efforts with the Camerlengo's courtesan bore fruit most quickly. He'd learnt, after making inquiries in the area, that the woman's name was Sabina de Risi and that she was a celebrated beauty. Every single man with whom he spoke was in agreement on that. He also learned that she loved larks, fine pastries, and marzipan—though not together. So he found these things, and sent them to her with the compliments of the English embassy.

After a few of these presents were sent to her home, she replied with a letter thanking him for his gifts and an invitation to wait upon her at his soonest convenience. Cromwell presumed this would be a preliminary meeting, wherein she sounded him out and decided whether or not he would be fit to grace her table and interact with her patron. So he washed himself, donned his best, brushed his hair (as much as he could, anyway), and made his way to her villa off the Via Aurelia on the east bank of the Tiber.

He spoke Italian to the manservant who showed him into the villa's courtyard, but Latin when he was presented to the villa's mistress, strolling lazily around a fountain.

It was true what they said, he discerned instantly, when they said Sabina de Risi was one of the most beautiful women in Rome. It would be equally fair to say she was one of the most beautiful women in all of Italy, and possibly Christendom as well. Cromwell had seen many women during his travels, and he had seldom seen her equal.

She had thick, lustrous hair of the fair golden-blonde that was so prized among women, which framed a white-skinned, oval face in which was set a pair of big, long-lashed eyes which were a clear greenish-gold colour that put him in mind of a wheat field on the cusp of autumn, which sat over a straight, patrician nose and a pair of full, soft red lips. Lips which curved into a lovely, practised smile as Cromwell bowed before her and said, "_Felix praecipuus est, cum talis pulchritudine habitare_."

"You speak well, for an Englishman," Sabina replied in Latin.

"I passed many years of my youth abroad, Signorina de Risi," Cromwell replied.

"_Poi parli italiano, Signor Cromwell_?" Sabina riposted with an arch of her pale brow.

"_Sì, Donna de Risi, ma molto male_," he replied in the same language.

"Then we shall speak Italian," Sabina decreed. "It is a beautiful language."

"Nearly as beautiful as the lips it falls from," Cromwell complimented lightly. Such pretty words were expected of diplomats, especially when they were trying to ingratiate themselves with such women. That it was true didn't hurt at all.

Sabina gave a light shrug and a lazy smile as she accepted the flattery as her due, and beckoned him to approach. He fell into step with her as she meandered slowly around the fountain, basking in the weak winter sunlight. His eyes took in the marble benches and antique statues that decorated the yard, and he caught a glimpse of a room hung with tapestry and ornaments that glinted with jewels. Clearly Spinola kept his courtesan in rich estate.

"Is that an antique?" he inquired of the lady as they wandered past a white marble statue of a young woman with drapery falling around her waist and legs and flowers carved onto the stone around her bare feet. It was possible that was a real Roman antiquity... and it was also possible that the statue's missing nose and arm were something done by the dealer, trying to drive the price up with a false history.

"Yes," Sabina replied with a smile, glancing at the statue in question and giving Cromwell a clear view of her profile before taking his arm and leading him closer so they might view it more closely. "My Cardinal acquired it from a farmer from Perugia who found it in his fields. We think it is perhaps meant to be Persephone."

"Due to the flowers," Cromwell presumed. He glanced up at the missing shoulder of the statue, and leaned in to take a closer look. "It could also be a Venus, if there was once a Cupid perched here. You can see where time has worn away what was once a support," he added, gesturing to a mark on the side of the statue.

Sabina bent to look where he indicated, and her golden hair tumbled over her shoulder, bringing with it the fragrance of cloves and ambergris. It also gave him an excellent view of her creamy white breasts, pushed up by her bodice. She was very... obvious about her physical charms; then again, he supposed, she was a courtesan. Not that her beauty was the only reason; as they continued to discuss possible identities of the statue, which then moved into a conversation about the re-emerging classics and the Greek language, Sabina proved to be intelligent, learned, and witty as well.

Evidently he comported himself well enough to be accepted as a dinner partner; Sabina offered him a place at her table next week when she, her Cardinal, and a few other members of the Curia would be supping and having a look at another antique statue that had been found—a bust of an older man. "I have not yet seen it myself, of course," she demurred. "Agostino does so love his little secrets. And then you will have a chance to speak with him about your master's Great Matter," she added with a sly smile.

Cromwell answered her jab with a smile of his own that was both admiring and a touch long-suffering. "Am I so transparent, _madonna_?"

Sabina tossed her golden hair with an arch of her neck and a slight undulation of her shoulders which gave him another very flattering view of her décolletage. Cromwell wondered if she was trying to entice him in particular or if this was just how she acted with every man who crossed her path... until he caught a glimpse of her amber-green eyes watching him from under her long lashes, and realised it was something different, and she was trying to draw a reaction from him.

He allowed an amused grin to spread across his face, and gave her a deep bow in acknowledgement. The woman herself gave a light, tinkling laugh and stepped forward to take his arm, leading him out of the courtyard and into the columned promenade. "I assure you, _Signor_, that you are no such thing," she assured him sweetly. "But you are English and you are come to Rome; you ask to see His Holiness and are rebuffed, and then seek out the mistress of the Camerlengo. One cannot help but make... assumptions."

"'Assumptions' is far too weak a word, _madonna_; better they should be called 'insights'," he replied. "Your eyes are as watchful and keen as they are beautiful."

"And my ears as well," Sabina said, tilting her head to let her hair slide away to reveal one of the aforementioned ears, before steering him around the covered walkway. She drew him to a stop near the gate, and Cromwell subtly read that his audience with her was nearly at an end—something for which he was thankful. "Come to dine on Thursday," she bid him with a pretty smile, looking up through her lashes. "I will expect you."

Cromwell bid her farewell and thanked her for seeing him with the appropriate flatteries and courtesies, but his mind was only half-present with the golden-haired courtesan. And once he'd taken leave of her and turned his steps back towards his lodgings, the rest of his mind flew away from Sabini de Risi, with her golden beauty and her seductive charms, and back to England, where waited a soft, quiet, honest brunette as different from the courtesan as night was from day.

For the most part, Thomas tried not to think about Clara; he needed to keep his focus here and now and keep his mind as sharp as possible to fence with the many schemers in Rome—one of whom he'd just spoken with. But sometimes, someone or something would catch his attention and bring her roaring back to prominence. This time, it was Sabina's reference to her ears.

He wondered what Clara was doing. He'd heard from Ralph that she was to have a position at court, and by now she was surely established therein; how was she finding it? Had her ears—keener by far than Sabina de Risi's—adjusted to the noise? Had she heard anything of use yet? Why had she not yet written to him? He'd sent her a letter a few weeks back; had it arrived? Perhaps it hadn't, and that was why he'd not yet had a reply. Or perhaps she was too busy with her new duties, and blinded by the splendour of the King's court. Had she been swept off her feet by some younger son with good connections but no prospects who had noticed her graceful body and pretty face and wanted to take the wealthy widow to wife?

_But no_, he chastised himself as he passed the portal of the palazzo and moved to his chambers, _no, Clara would not do that. She gave her word to wait for me, and wait she will. Her word is good_.

_Unless she chose against you_, hissed a voice in his mind. _If she chose to be nothing to you, if she wants nothing from you but friendship, she could even now be married elsewhere and you would never know_.

_No_, he said firmly to himself. _No, that way lies madness. All I can do is trust to her honour and her honesty_.

But if he included in his next letter to her rather more information about Sabini de Risi and her beauty and intelligence and charm than was necessarily warranted... well, it would be well for Clara to realise that she wasn't the only woman in his life. Perhaps it would torment her, as the idea that he was not the only man in hers tormented him.

Cromwell spared a moment to pause at the window and look out over the city of Rome. He allowed himself a bare moment to think of how Clara would love to be here, how she would look out at this same vista with wide brown eyes and an excited beam, for he knew she dearly wanted to see foreign lands. He imagined her following along in his wake as they went about the city on business, imagined her nibbling at pastries and pastas at supper beside him, imagined her listening intently to the language spoken around them and mimicking the sounds and speech after. Imagined her snuggling up to him in bed at night, and resting her dark head on his shoulder.

But then the moment passed, and Cromwell shoved Clara's spectre back into the depths of his mind. She was not here, she could not be here, and if he wanted to see her again he needed to spend his time on working around the obstacles in his path, and not on useless pipe dreams.

That Thursday, he once again put on his best clothing and made his way back to the house of Sabina de Risi. The house was well-lit by torches and braziers set all along the columned promenade, and he was shown into a very loud and merry salon in the centre of which was the golden figure of Sabina herself, surrounded by red-clad churchmen and a few other well-dressed men and women, all in varying hues of the rainbow. Cromwell felt rather drab and dull in his grey velvet and wondered if the colourful crowd around him would scorn him for that, but gave a mental shrug. Perhaps it would please the Italians to look down on him, and if they were pleased, perhaps they would assist him. As for himself, he cared not what they thought of him.

He made his way through the throng to where his hostess held court near a brazier, a man with tousled brown hair and a neatly-trimmed goatee standing close at her side. That must be the man himself: Cardinal Agostino Spinola, the Camerlengo of the Holy See. He was not a bad-looking man, and was wearing a slashed doublet made of blue velvet and pale green hose instead of a Cardinal's red robe. But he was wholly eclipsed by the woman at his side.

Sabina looked particularly well this evening, with her golden hair pulled back with a gold comb and left to tumble freely around her shoulders and arms. Her gown was a rich amber velvet chased with gold and russet embroidery. It made her look warm and real and wholly touchable, for it made a man wonder what she would feel like in his arms, with the velvet soft and warmed by the woman it adorned. And she smiled coquettishly as he approached, and held out her hand. "Ah, _Signor_ Cromwell," she purred. "How good to see you again. I must thank you for the fine brace of pheasants you sent me. My dear," she said, turning to the man at her side and laying a delicate white hand on his arm, "this is the Englishman I told you about—the one who sent us those larks you so enjoyed, and who speaks Italian so well. _Signor_ Cromwell, this is Cardinal Agostino Spinola," she introduced.

Spinola extended his hand, and Cromwell bent to kiss his ring, as was proper for a layman to a cardinal. When he straightened, Spinola's blue eyes were fixed evenly on his face. Cromwell could almost hear the thoughts whizzing and clicking behind those eyes—was this foreigner too close to Sabina, was he good for gold as the rumour went, would he ask for things he couldn't give? But Spinola just gave him a mild smile and greeted him in Italian—a test?

Cromwell replied in the same tongue, and made inquires about the marble bust they were come to view tonight. That set the churchman off about his finding of the bust and how marvellous it was and the revival of the old Roman arts and the standards thereof. Soon enough it shifted into a conversation between himself, the Cardinal, and Sabina which soon enough drew the attention and contributions of the other guests. And once they were all gathered around the host and hostess, Sabina smoothly garnered their attention and led them all into another chamber, lit by a great many torches and candles, wherein rested the bust in question.

Though his attention was focussed elsewhere, Cromwell still took some time to marvel at the bust. It was a portrait made of a middle-aged man with close-cropped curls, a nose that had probably been very hawkish, and very sharp cheekbones. It was missing the tip of the nose and the left ear, though the imperfections did not take away from the overall impression of the carvings. He marvelled at how lifelike it was, even as he always kept a measure of his attention on Spinola.

Cromwell fell back after a few minutes examining the bust, making way for others to take a closer look, and moved slowly but deliberately over to where Spinola stood with Sabina, proudly watching the guests marvel over his new acquisition.

"It is a marvel, your Eminence," he complimented once he'd caught the cardinal's attention. "Have you any idea to the identity of the man?"

"A senator, I believe," Spinola replied with a shrug. "Beyond that, I cannot tell. There don't seem to be any identifying inscriptions."

"Nevertheless, it is still quite magnificent."

Sabina glanced between the two of them and then excused herself, trailing her tapered fingers along Spinola's slashed sleeve slowly as she went, hips swaying. She cast a look over her shoulder, catching her patron staring at her, and their eyes met with an almost-palpable jolt of chemistry. Cromwell was more interested in watching Spinola than Sabina, and therefore caught the expression on his face.

_He loves her_, Cromwell realised instantly, a shaft of pity lancing through his heart. Because of the Catholic Church's wrong-headed, outdated stance on priests, Spinola would never be able to marry the woman he loved, and Sabina herself would forever be lambasted as a whore because the man who loved her was unable to marry her. He felt a sudden upwelling of determination to see the Church brought down as low as he could, so that such pairings would in the future have a chance to live in the light of day, and not be shoved shamefully into the shadows. And though they would likely never thank him for it—and would probably curse his name—he would think of Spinola and Sabina while he did.

"How is His Holiness?" Cromwell inquired innocently. "I heard he had some digestive complaints today, when I called on him."

Spinola gave him a sideways look and a dry grin. "Who can say? I doubt His Holiness is any danger, though he may be in some discomfort," he replied obliquely.

"Perhaps he will be well enough for me to see him tomorrow," Cromwell said mildly. "I very much wish to do so—as does my master, the King of England, who desires to have friends in the Curia." Thus saying, he slid a hand into his pocket, and pointedly shifted the pouch therein, letting the contents clink against one another in a very distinctive way.

Judging by the interest which lit in the Cardinal's eyes, Cromwell's point had been well made. "I will see what I can do, _Signor_," he assured him.

The purse discreetly changed hands. "My thanks, Your Eminence. I'm certain His Majesty the King would convey his gratitude as well. Perhaps he might yet have the chance," Cromwell added leadingly.

"I would welcome the chance to earn the King's... gratitude," Spinola returned, just as leading. The two men smiled at each other, sharing a moment of perfect understanding, before Spinola clapped Cromwell on the shoulder and gestured to the throng. "Come, let us join the others. Sabina will be having supper served soon."

And, like a filing moving towards a magnet, Spinola made his way towards his sparkling, golden mistress. Sabina turned and smiled at him as he approached, and Cromwell, following in the cardinal's wake, felt Clara's absence like an ache.

* * *

Despite buying the assistance of the Camerlengo, it still took another fortnight until Cromwell was allowed access to the Pope. He spent the time writing reports back to England, doing his best to bribe more Cardinals, dining with his friends, and, oddly enough, dancing attendance upon Sabina de Risi.

The courtesan seemed to have taken a shine to him, for whatever reason, and often invited him to dinners and parties at her house. He'd more than once thanked God that he was a decent gambler, since her card parties were apparently quite infamous. He'd lost quite a bit of money that first night, but was able to win it back a few nights later. And though he accepted the necessity of playing the game while he was a guest, these parties did nothing to disabuse him of his belief that gambling was both dangerous and wasteful.

At least, gambling with cards, for fun.

The sort of gamble he was currently involved in had much higher stakes. There was the Pope on one side, being evasive, and backed by his noncommittal Curia; on the other side was the King of England, who was growing increasingly impatient, as the tone of his missives conveyed. And there in the middle sat Cromwell, needing to put pressure on one and pacify the other.

He was finally shown into the Pope's presence chamber in the first week in April, in the middle of St. Peter's. As expected, he knelt before the pontiff and kissed the proffered foot, shoving down his revulsion and scorn to a place in the farthest back corner of his mind as he arranged his face into an expression of quiet reverence and respect.

"Welcome, my son," Pope Clement VII said grandly, sitting back in his throne.

Cromwell murmured something appropriately courtly while thinking, in the back of his head, that Jesus Christ himself had never occupied a throne. _Show me in scripture where it says 'pope'_, he thought—a wisp of contemplation that was there and then swiftly tucked away.

The Pope made no mention of his evasiveness and the fact that he'd rather not be talking to any English embassy, and Cromwell made no mention of the fact that he'd had to resort to bribing cardinals to get an audience. Instead, Clement spread his hands and asked magnanimously, "Now, what news from our beloved son the King of England, the Defender of the Faith?"

Clever reminder of what Henry owed the Vatican, though that had been Leo X who bestowed the title—this pope's elder cousin. Perhaps Clement had been hearing the rumours that the King was threatening to withdraw his allegiance from Rome? Cromwell didn't bat an eye, however, and merely replied, "His Majesty begs Your Holiness to write to Cardinal Campeggio and bid him hurry the legatine hearing along. His conscience torments him with the thought of living any longer in sin with his brother's wife."

There, that was diplomatic and carrying the essential points of King Henry's argument. Although it was amusing to imagine how the Pope would respond if he marched in and repeated Henry's injunction word-for-word (vulgarities included), it would also be intensely counterproductive.

Clement had an expression of benevolent understanding on his face which did not quite conceal the irritation hidden in the corners of his eyes or pursed in the corners of his lips. "I well understand my beloved English son's troubles, and I pray daily that our most gracious and mighty God may give him peace," he said piously.

Cromwell nodded soberly. "And His Majesty is grateful for your prayers. However, he was also rather hoping your Holiness might take a more... active part in the resolution of his dilemma," he hinted. "Bearing in mind that King Henry is indeed your most beloved son, the Defender of the Faith. Against both heretics and even... other Christians, as needed.." There, that was a nice oblique reference to the Emperor.

The Pope did not react to that, though, and kept that mild expression on his face. "I will act as God guides me, my son," he replied lightly, but with a hint of steel in his tones. "And I will continue to pray that everything will be resolve to the satisfaction of all parties involved."

_Impossible_, Cromwell thought scornfully. Henry would only be happy if he got his annulment; Katherine would only be happy if Henry left off the whole idea and let Princess Mary stand as heir; Anne Boleyn would only be happy if she were Queen; the Emperor would only be happy if his aunt remained on the throne and his cousin, presumably, continued on as heiress. Most of these things fell into two distinct categories which were mutually exclusive to one another. Only one party would be truly content with the outcome of this matter, and the way the Pope was carrying on right now he was angering both and satisfying neither.

He gave voice to his thoughts quietly and respectfully, though he felt more inclined to be sharp: "I fear, Your Holiness, that such a thing is quite impossible. The King of England will only be satisfied with a swift trial regarding his marriage to the Princess of Aragon, and a just annulment thereafter."

The Pope sighed slightly, his shoulders sagging a bit, as though weighed down with invisible burdens. Cromwell suppressed a jaundiced sneer; he supposed that balancing the anger of the King of England with the anger of the Emperor was indeed a weighty burden. But the remedy was at hand; should the Pope make a choice one way or another, the burdens would vanish. Admittedly, they would likely be replaced with new ones, since no matter what he chose one monarch would be furious. But that was what diplomacy was for.

"The King, your master, will have to be satisfied with the hearing of his nullity suit in England, and the prayers of Christ's Vicar on Earth," the Pope replied firmly. "We are all in the hands of God, Master Cromwell. God be with you, my son," he added, moving his hand in the traditional motions of a papal blessing.

Apparently, that was the end of it; the audience was now over. As Cromwell bent again to kiss the Pope's toe, he couldn't help but think he hadn't got his money's worth at all. Admittedly, that was part of being in diplomatic service. But the taste of failure still sat bitterly in his mouth.

As he exited St. Peter's, he paused in the shadow of a pillar to look out over the basilica. He noticed the construction taking place in the centre of the square, where was being built a new cathedral, begun by Leo X; he noticed the movements of crimson-clad cardinals and purple-draped bishops; but mostly he noticed the ebb and flow of poor pilgrims coming into and out of the Vatican. Many were clad in sackcloth, and crawled up the stairs on their knees, praying for blessings and salvation and peace.

And suddenly, Cromwell was furious. He hated this whole city and the churchmen who ruled it, hated them for so perverting the original ideals as set down in Holy Scripture, hated them for taking advantage of the faithful believers who had earnest faith in the promises of a decaying institution, which used the tithes and offerings of its flock to enrich its own princes. He hated Rome and all it stood for. He hated it, and vowed inwardly that he would do anything and everything he could to tear it down.

He turned away sharply and walked back to his lodgings, eyes cast down and teeth clenched, feeling the burn of his failure with the Pope and the humiliation at the memory of his old piety and devotion. The black cloud followed him up to his study in the palazzo, where he sat down at the desk and settled in to write a report back to England. He hoped he adequately conveyed the truth of the issue—that the Pope would pray, but do nothing else—while ensuring that the King understood that his servants had done their best.

Cromwell wasn't certain how King Henry would take the Pope's lukewarm reply to his pleas. Oh, the king said he would break with Rome and reject papal authority, but Cromwell wasn't sure if His Majesty was truly serious. He certainly hoped so, because such an England that would be created after would an England he could truly be at home within, and could love with every fibre of his heart. He hoped so, but he also knew that Henry VIII had been a devout Catholic for all his life, taking pride in being the Defender of the Faith.

Then again, Thomas Cromwell had also once been devout, too.

All it took was the right lever to lift a man out of his faith. And if Cromwell were to judge by the frequency of the king's threats to dispatch with the Pope, his enduring passion for Anne Boleyn and his determination to have her at all costs, and Queen Katherine's equal determination not to be put aside... this Great Matter might just be the lever to lift the King—and England—free of this Catholic yoke. So perhaps his failure with the Pope was not such a bad thing after all. No matter how little he enjoyed the feeling now, it was possible that it served a higher purpose, and prove to be fortuitous in the future.

Cromwell sent his report back to England with the fastest courier the embassy had. Spring was blooming across the continent, so the roads would likely be much more passable than they'd been when he came to Rome in winter. One man on horseback could possibly make it from Rome to London and back again within a fortnight, if the man rode hard and switched mounts often and if the weather was good. That was what he hoped; he very much wanted to receive new orders from the King as soon as possible. Since the Pope had stated his neutrality, he would serve no more purpose here, and he wanted to return to England.

While he waited for his new orders, Cromwell carried on much as he had in the weeks before. He made contacts and friends among the merchants and bankers of Rome, avoided the Vatican at all costs, and spent a few more evenings in the company of Sabina de Risi and her glittering circle.

One warm spring evening at the end of March, Cromwell retired from the gaming tables inside and walked out into the courtyard. It was lit by torches and moonlight, and the reflected light from the water in the fountain cast strange shadows on the marble statue of the woman who was either Persephone or Venus. He stood before the stone goddess and looked up at her face, serene and graceful in the pale gleam, and thought about Clara.

He'd had a letter from her a few days ago, tucked in along the dispatches from Ralph. She was indeed at court now, serving the Queen; she wrote of the noise, of the conflicts and compromises she encountered as she settled in, of the new friends she was making and how she missed his guidance and his friendship. The only questions she answered, though, were those contained in his first letter he'd sent to her; apparently his second had not yet reached London.

She was uncertain of him, he could tell; she was just as open in writing as she was in person. She was happy to hear from him and begged him to write again, but she said little of substance and moved delicately around more sensitive subjects. Was it just the distance? Or was this inward reticence a trend that would carry on once they were once again in company together?

He hoped not. He missed her company.

"Should I be offended, _Signor_ Cromwell, that you prefer the company of a marble woman to one of flesh and blood?"

Cromwell turned to see the beautiful Sabina de Risi approaching him, like an apparition out of the moonlight. Tonight, her gown was a deep blue silk sewn with pearls, and it flowed around her like the water in her fountain; her golden hair was bleached nearly white by the moon, and caught back in a silvery net that winked with diamonds. She was one of the finest specimens of womanhood he'd ever seen in all his life; she was witty, and clever, and charming.

And yet she stirred nothing in him but dispassionate admiration.

"_Donna _Sabina," he acknowledged with a smile and a bow. "Forgive me, it became close inside and I wished to take a breath of fresh air and enjoy the beauty of the spring night."

"But of course," Sabina agreed, sidling up beside him and looking up at the statue. Her fair hair shone luminous in the faint light and the diamonds twinkled at him, but Cromwell could not help but think of another head of hair, soft and dark and tucked away modestly into a snood. "So, _Signor_, you have talked with the Pope, like your master wanted. How much longer will you be in Rome?"

"So eager to be rid of my company, _madonna_?" Cromwell quipped. "Why, you were pining for me not five minutes ago."

Sabina let out a twinkling little laugh and tossed her golden curls with a flick of her neck. Cromwell thought of silent mirth shaking in a pair of narrow shoulders, and shy smiles hidden behind a wave of loose brown hair. "Well, you did abandon me for my artwork," she riposted lightly. "Hardly gallant, _Signor_."

She turned more fully and fixed her green-gold eyes piercingly onto his face; he was unsure of her purpose in doing so, but met her eyes calmly. Even as he held her gaze, however, he still couldn't escape the memory of clear, open dark eyes, and wondered it meant that even when in the presence of a beautiful, charming courtesan he still couldn't get Clara out of his mind.

"Who is she?" Sabina asked him suddenly. "Does she," indicating the statue, "remind you of her?"

"_Madonna_?" Cromwell asked, his wits startled into flight. How had she divined his thoughts? Had she divined his thoughts, or had something shown on his face? Had his absence from court thrown him off his game? (He didn't think that particularly likely; if anything, the Roman Curia was even worse than Whitehall.) Or was it Clara who was addling his mind?

"Who is she, the woman who has such a hold on your heart?" Sabina asked again.

"What makes you think there's a woman, _Donna _Sabina? Other than yourself, of course," Cromwell equivocated with a half-smile.

Sabina gave him a flat look. "Please, _Signor_ Cromwell, give me more credit," she chided. She sent him a flirtatious look from under her eyelashes and moved closer to him with a swaying gait. Cromwell raised his eyebrows politely, but otherwise didn't react. "That is how I know," she said, dropping the act and stepping away, her expression amused instead of coquettish.

"I might just be able to control my expression," Cromwell posited mildly, recalling a similar conversation with Clara that had taken place a few months ago.

"You do, at that," Sabina agreed. "But I look with a woman's eyes, _Signor_, and a woman's heart." She looked evenly at him, the aforementioned woman's eyes huge and liquid in the moonlight. "And my heart tells me that yours lies elsewhere." She pouted at him, and Cromwell wondered if that was why the courtesan kept seeking him out, and apparently favouring him and his company: because he didn't react to her as other men did, since his heart lay leagues and leagues away. "Is she prettier than me?"

Cromwell let the corner of his mouth curl upwards as he answered Sabina honestly in the negative, indulging the courtesan's vanity. No, Clara was not prettier than Sabina, nor more educated, nor more charming. But it was Clara whom he wanted.

He wondered if that meant he was in love.

"Then it must be love," Sabina concluded with an arch smile, echoing his thoughts once more.

"Perhaps it is," Cromwell murmured thoughtfully, looking up once more into the face of the marble goddess, who had lain in the earth for centuries untold, forgotten and neglected, until she was unearthed once more. He craned his neck still further to look up at the moon—the same moon that was surely shining down upon Clara back in England.

Perhaps he was in love with Clara Tyrell. Perhaps Henry VIII would truly break with Rome and preside over an England where faith and the gospel held more sway than idolatry and superstition. Perhaps Anne Boleyn would truly become Queen of England. Perhaps the base-born son of a Putney brewer could take to wife the daughter of a family that had been gentry since the Normans.

The world seemed to spread out before Thomas Cromwell in that moment like a rich carpet, with possibilities gleaming like golden threads running through the weave. Everything seemed possible—a Lutheran England, a Queen Anne Boleyn... a Lady Clara Cromwell.

Perhaps.

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**A/N part deux:** Well, that's that chapter done, finally. I have got to start outlining shorter chapters.

Anyway, I can't make any promises about the timeline of future updates (other than "within six months"); I may have to get a second job to pay for things like health insurance and rent and food, which will cut very deeply into my writing time. But the next chapter will come hopefully a little sooner than this one did; back to England with everyone!

Also, Agostino Spinola was a real person, and actually was Camerlengo under Clement VII. Sabina de Risi, though, is entirely made up; I borrowed some inspiration from _In the Company of the Courtesan_ by Sarah Dunant, and the name was contributed by Mercury Gray. Donna/Madonna is not making reference to the singer or the Virgin Mary; it was an Italian form of address around the time which just means lady/my lady. Same with "signor"; it's Italian for "mister".

Anyway, let me know how/if you liked this chapter! My poor beta's computer broke, so I had to edit this one all on my own. So if I missed anything, it's my fault!


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** Sorry for the wait—again. It's been busy; I started looking for, and eventually got, a second job, moved into my own apartment (which used to be my brother's apartment before he moved to Chicago), helped my mother sell my childhood home, and then rotated all the furniture in my apartment when my brother came back for his in between the last update and now. So that was busy. I've also had to adjust to a fifty-hour work week. My free time has diminished to about five hours in twenty-four, which makes finding time for writing a little harder. So you all have my apologies. Alas for the demands of real life! However, I've been adjusting and trying to alter my writing habits to produce a bit more, so hopefully I'll be able to manage, now that my life is no longer in a constant state of upheaval.

As per my resolve to outline shorter chapters and therefore produce more chapters in less amount of time (a resolve which I obviously did not manage to fulfil; I'm still slightly baffled as to how this chapter grew beyond 40 pages, as that wasn't supposed to happen) this chapter actually turned out to be very Cromwell-lite. It's a very Clara-centric chapter; I hope you won't mind. On the plus side, we see a lot of other people.

Thanks to Shout in a Whisper for her prompt and marvellous beta-work, to Mercury Grey for being awesome, and to PhantomProducer for a timely review which ensured the chapter would be posted ASAP.

* * *

**Chapter 13:**

_2 April, 1529_

It had taken her a few weeks, but Clara Tyrell felt that she'd finally settled in to her new position at court.

The noise had ceased to grate so on her ears, and she'd gotten used to living in a sea of people once more. She and Benedict had been able to come to an agreeable arrangement in regards to sharing the same small apartment. She'd also been accepted, for the most part, by the other ladies-in-waiting. It seemed Thomas More had established her _bona fides_, and the awkward conversation with the Queen had ostensibly cemented her place as a trustworthy companion. The routine was neither too dull nor too onerous, and there were plenty of diversions to be had (including an abundance of very interesting gossip, some of which was salacious enough to make Clara's cheeks burn). And best of all, her novelty had quite worn off, and for the most part she'd been able to fade quietly into the background. It all made for relatively more restful days, and Clara was thankful.

On a quiet April afternoon, after Queen Katherine had retired to prayer (again) and dismissed most of her ladies to do as they would until supper, Clara and a few of her new friends decided to pass their afternoon of leisure in the maze. They agreed to meet outside in the knot garden in a half-hour; they all wanted to retire to their rooms first. Clara hurried back to her chambers to fetch her book and change her dress; the stiff, formal, heavy brocade gowns the queen's attendants wore while in attendance on her were not so suited for frolicking in the gardens.

Clara's maid, Mary Harper, was lacing her into one of the new gowns she'd had made before she came to court (a lighter one made of black silk and cut quite fashionably, according to Agnes), when her ears pricked up at the sound of her brother's distinctive footsteps approaching the door.

"Hello, Ben," she called out lightly as the door swung open, letting her voice carry over the screen that hid her part of the room from the rest of the suite.

The footsteps paused for a moment, before she heard her brother chortle softly and shut the door behind him. "Why, if it isn't Lady Popular," her brother teased as he entered the room. "Come to grace your humble brother with your most exalted company?"

"For a bit," Clara replied, rolling her eyes and grinning, though she was still concealed behind the screen and Ben couldn't see her. "I am meeting some friends in the knot garden, and we're going walking in the maze this afternoon."

Once she was dressed, she silently indicated a simple cap and veil. Harper went to go pick it up while Clara moved to stand in front of the mirror. She squinted into the polished surface and did her best to tidy her hair before letting her maid settle the black silk cap onto her head. Her gold cross was already hanging around her neck and her garnet ring twinkled on her finger, and Clara thought she looked quite smart. She offered Harper a smile and a quiet thank you before emerging from behind the screen and giving her brother a pert grin.

Benedict was digging through his desk for something, but he paused and returned her grin when she stepped out. "Well, you look nice, Clare... for still being swathed in black," he offered cheekily.

Clara sneered playfully at him and moved to pick up her book. "If the sight of me in my mourning garb so offends you, you'll only have to endure it for a few months more. I've already ordered some dresses in colours—Agnes was particularly pleased to assist me there," she said dryly.

"Yes, I gathered," Ben replied lightly, a soft, crooked smile stealing across his face at the thought of Agnes. Apparently their affair was still going strong; Clara tried not to wince. "I'm certain your suitors will appreciate the alteration."

That made her pause. "What suitors?" Clara asked, frowning. The only suitor she could bring to mind was Thomas Cromwell, and no one else (save Ralph, Agnes, and Marion) was aware of that.

Ben stood up straight, then, and turned to give her a flat stare. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed," he said.

"Er," said Clara.

Her brother gave a short, barking laugh. "You've become quite the catch, Clara," he told her, amused. At her blank, uncomprehending squint, he rolled his green eyes and explained, "Well, you're a young, independent, wealthy widow with only one young son who's being raised elsewhere... plenty of the young bucks around court—especially the younger sons with no inheritances who have to marry well—are trying to catch your eye. I can't even count how many times I've been asked me to make an introduction and 'put in a good word' in the past week or so," he finished in a grumble.

Clara looked back on the past fortnight with new eyes. Now that she thought about it, there had been rather a lot of young men fluttering around when she joined the court for dancing and merry-making in the evenings. She had never wanted for partners or conversation or even someone to refill her cup when her drink ran low. She'd thought it was just her novelty attracting all those courtiers; apparently not. "Oh no," she groaned unhappily.

Benedict looked up from the letter that was occupying his attention and gave her a slightly confused look. "It's not the end of the world, Clare," he offered. "I thought you'd be pleased to attract more... er, attention."

"Of course not!" Clara cried, scowling at him. "Have you forgotten under what conditions I came to court in the first place? Oh, this is terrible," she muttered, sinking into a chair with a rustle of black silk. "We've got to stop this—what if Spencer hears about this, he'll take Arthur—"

"He'll do no such thing," Benedict interrupted, coming over to take her shoulders and shake her gently. "It's an inevitable part of life at court. You're young, rich, relatively pretty, and independent; you're going to have admirers. So long as you take sensible precautions, there will be no rumours. Who knows, you might even find one you like," he added wryly. "Spencer can't keep you from remarrying."

Clara made a face. That was the problem; she'd already found one she liked, but as far as she could see she was unable to marry him. She was not going to tell that to Ben, though. "What kind of sensible precautions do you suggest?" she asked her brother instead, ready to hear his advice, since he'd been associated with the court for far longer than she.

Ben shrugged a little, moving to put the letter back into his desk. "Don't be alone with another man—or at least, don't be seen to be alone with another man... saving myself, of course. Don't flirt overmuch, don't show anyone marked attentions or permit anyone to show them to you, continue dressing with reasonable modesty..." He shrugged again, turning back to face her. "You know, common sense."

With a resolute nod, Clara fixed her brother's counsel in her mind and stood. She collected her book (the Arthurian Romances of Chrétien de Troyes; sometimes the other ladies asked her to read aloud to them, and they were currently in the middle of _Yvain, le Chevalier au Lion_) and moved towards the door, stopping to press a kiss to her brother's cheek in silent thanks for his advice. Then she was out the door and moving quickly towards the knot garden, nodding and smiling to the people she passed, but not stopping. Not only was she late, she was also alone.

Stepping out into the sunshine and fresh air was marvellous, and Clara took a moment to pause at the edge of the lawn, close her eyes, and breathe in. It smelled like spring (well, spring and London). She couldn't help but remember last spring, when she'd been back at Ardley with her husband and both her children, living the quiet life of a country lady. And now, a bare year later, she was a widow in the service of the Queen of England. It was almost comical, the difference a year could make.

Shaking her head, Clara banished her contemplations and moved turned her steps toward the knot garden. She had barely taken two steps, however, when her ears picked up the sound of rapid footsteps coming in her direction. Judging by their heaviness and the fact that there was no sound of skirts accompanying them, these were the footsteps of a man—and that was precisely what she did not want right now.

She tried to speed her own footsteps and outpace her pursuer, but unfortunately he caught up to her as she passed through the garden gate. "Lady Tyrell!" said the man, reaching out to grasp her elbow.

Though Clara recognised his voice, and recalled him as one of the young men who had been much around her of late, it took her a moment to remember his name (and even then she wasn't entirely certain that it was Henry Lovell). Previously, she'd thought he was just being friendly... but now it seemed instead that he wanted something particular from her—something she was not inclined to give him.

So she pasted a slight smile on her face—not wanting to be seen to be too encouraging, but not wanting to be rude and unfriendly, either—and turned to face him, which conveniently removed her arm from his grasp. "Good afternoon, my Lord," she greeted modestly.

"You know you can call me Harry, if you like, Lady Tyrell," the young man—Harry—offered hopefully, looking down at her with his clear brown eyes, a shade or two lighter than her own, while he brushed a curl of his floppy blonde hair out of his face.

"I... er," Clara stumbled, though she mentally reminded herself that this probably was Henry Lovell, if he was inviting her to call him Harry. Unless there was another Harry/Henry among the young men who were apparently perusing her? Which was not outside the realm of possibility. "I'm not entirely certain I'm comfortable with that level of familiarity, Master Lovell," she eventually demurred, ducking her head a little.

Harry's face fell, a little—though since he didn't take umbrage or correct her, presumably she'd remembered his name correctly. At least that was something. "Where are you going? May I escort you?" he asked, rebounding quickly from her mild rebuff.

"That's not necessary, Master Lovell, though I thank you for your courtesy. I pray you excuse me; my friends are waiting," she replied firmly but kindly, before giving him a nod and moving once more towards the knot garden.

However, it seemed her brush-off was either too subtle or too gentle, since Harry kept pace with her as she walked swiftly towards the garden, asking her about her day, and what book she had, and whether or not she was enjoying the sunshine. Clara kept trying to discourage him without being outright impolite, and sighed with relief when they finally made it to the knot garden where she could see the throng of other ladies waiting next to a bank of daffodils. They had collected a group of young men as well, which were buzzing around them like bees to flowers.

Wonderful.

Clara was the last to arrive, and immediately made a beeline for Maud. Though she was still a little uncomfortable with her future sister-in-law, Maud was so obviously trying to make friends that Clara couldn't help but respond to her overtures. Besides, though Maud was not as well-read as Meg Roper or herself, she was reasonably witty, a good conversationalist, and she played a pleasant lute; she was also well-established around court. In short, Lady Knivert would be a dependable escort.

She linked their arms and smiled widely at her, whispering quickly in an undertone, "Don't leave me alone."

Maud's homely face creased a little in confusion, but she seemed willing to abide by Clara's request, and did not depart from her side... even as several of the young men attempted to lure Clara away for private discourse.

Later, as they were all walking through the hedge maze, Maud leaned in and asked quietly, "Dare I ask why you are cringing away from your swains?"

"I hadn't realised they were my swains," she admitted lowly, blushing slightly at her prior ignorance. Her tact had improved, though; had it been anyone else, she would've said that she hadn't known that she had suitors until her brother pointed it out to her. But she would not mention Ben to Maud. "I had thought they were just being friendly, drawn by my novelty."

Maud chuckled a little and shook her head, patting Clara's hand where it was still clenched around her sleeve. "Ah, you dear, sweet innocent." They paused for a moment to glance behind to the crowd they'd outpaced, containing now not only Henry Lovell but also a few more of the young men who'd been paying Clara particular attention. "They're not bad looking, you know. Master Bedingfeld is quite handsome," she confided with a grin, referring to a tall, strapping young man with smooth wings of fair reddish-gold hair and dancing blue eyes.

Clara just shrugged, but Maud pressed on. "That one is William de Vere," she said, nodding towards a sturdy youth with lazy brown curls and hazel eyes which were currently following the trailing skirts of the two ladies, and which flicked up to Clara's face once he realised they were looking at him. "He's the Earl of Oxford's youngest nephew. He's not got much money of his own, but he's connected to the peerage."

"Don't you start," Clara groaned, rolling her eyes. "I'm here to protect my rights to my son, not find a husband."

"Who says you can't do both?" Maud teased.

"George Spencer," muttered Clara. "This is just the sort of thing he's waiting for, and I am not of a mind to oblige him. I pray you, do not leave me unchaperoned with any of them."

"You're the only lady I know who tries to avoid men instead of attract them," Maud laughed, shaking her head. "It must be nice to have your own money and do as you will." That was said with a decided rind of bitterness.

"Sometimes the price of independence is high, though," Clara remarked quietly. Yes, it was pleasant to have land and money of her own, and answer to no one save God and her own will. But it had come at the price of Robin's life, and that was a price Clara would never have wanted to pay.

"And yet you have the freedom to make your own choices," was Maud's reply. "You can choose where to live, be it here or in your own home—a home where you alone are mistress. You can choose to eat what you like, wear what you like, go where you like when you like. You can choose to marry where you like—or not to marry at all, as you like. You have command over your own fate as other women do not. I should think that would be worth nearly any price."

Clara immediately thought of Marion, and allowed that Maud had a point. Marion was bereft of those choices. She was forced to live at Clara's will, on Clara's charity, and on Clara's choices; she had few other options. Marion was only in a nunnery now because of that lack—there was nowhere else for her to go. She thought of Agnes, trapped in a marriage with a man she despised and sinning regularly in an effort to forget him; she thought of Maud herself, betrothed to a man who cared nothing for her.

She suddenly wondered how Maud felt about the pending Gage-Knivert union. Benedict, obviously, did not want anything to do with it and would much rather the whole thing got called off, but how did Maud feel? She kept her cards closer to her chest; aside from trying to pry information out of Clara, she hadn't made her sentiments about her future wedding clear. Was she just as reluctant as Benedict? Or did she want to marry him? Objectively, after all, Clara knew her brother was quite handsome, and she'd overheard more than one young lady sighing after him. Or was Maud ambivalent, knowing that she must marry someone, and only Ben's pointed indifference made her bitter?

Part of Clara was curious, and wanted to ask; however, a larger part of her was afraid of the answer. So she elected to keep her mouth shut and just squeezed Maud's arm sympathetically before changing the subject.

And thus began Clara's great campaign to go nowhere at all without proper chaperonage. (Well, unless the Queen sent her on a specific errand which she could use as a talisman to ward off her suitors... if said suitors caught sight of her at all. After several weeks, Clara was getting very good at sneaking around Whitehall.) Maud was usually her most reliable companion, but there were times when Lady Knivert was unavailable, and so she clung like a burr to other ladies. Some found it amusing, others found it annoying, most were baffled by her behaviour, and many of the younger ladies hoped to catch the attention of the rejected swains for themselves.

One night in mid-April, after supper when the tables were cleared for dancing, Maud was drawn away by some other friends, leaving Clara to cast her eyes around for the nearest potential chaperone before any of her persistent admirers tracked her down. Most of the young men had understood her tacit discouragement and for the most part now left her alone, turning their sights onto more welcoming women, but there were a few more stubborn courtiers who were either missing the point, or who thought they could change her mind. Henry Lovell was one of them, and Clara cursed silently as she caught sight of him heading her way after Maud had taken her leave.

She immediately ducked into the crowds and tried to scurry for cover, casting her eyes here and there in a search of a good hiding place. There wasn't much available, and she eventually found herself hiding by the tables, trying to make herself smaller. Not that it worked very well; Clara was very aware that soon enough the news of her whereabouts would circulate back to the men who wished to know, and she'd be back where she started.

She started edging nervously towards the tapestries, wondering if there was enough space to hide behind them (probably not), when she heard the sound of brocade skirts approaching her, and a welcome voice came to her ears. "Hiding away from your pushy suitors?"

Clara turned to find another lady-in-waiting coming to her side—Elizabeth Darrell, unless she was incorrect. She beamed happily at the other woman, glad of her company, and admitted sheepishly, "Yes, although not very well."

"Don't try the tapestries," Elizabeth advised with a wry smile. "There's either not enough room, or you'll run afoul of other occupants." Clara didn't quite understand what she meant, and her incomprehension must have showed, since Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and leaned in to add, "Lovers."

"Oh," squeaked Clara, her cheeks flushing.

Elizabeth laughed, throwing her head back a bit, and the candlelight reflected off her golden curls, arranged under an atifet headdress but otherwise left to tumble freely around her shoulders. She was a very pretty woman, Clara noted objectively; prettier than herself. Why weren't those persistent young pups chasing her? "You are very funny, Lady Tyrell," Elizabeth Darrell eventually said with a wide smile. And though the words were slightly patronizing, the tone in which they were said was kind, so Clara took no offense.

The two ladies chatted for a time on the edges of the crowd, and were eventually joined by a man who was unknown to Clara but whom was obviously familiar to Elizabeth Darrell, since she blushed faintly as he bowed to them.

"Mistress Darrell, good evening to you," he said courteously, looking up at her through waves of soft golden-brown hair before straightening. He was a handsome fellow; Clara could well understand Elizabeth's blushes. "I trust I find you well."

"Very well, Master Wyatt," Elizabeth replied, and even Clara's keen ears could find no hint of a tremble or catch in her voice. Was this not one of her suitors, then? "And yourself?"

"Even better, now that I have had the chance to bask in your beauty," Master Wyatt replied flirtatiously. His dark blue eyes then flicked over to Clara, and he smiled at her. Yes, he really was quite handsome, Clara mused as she returned the expression. "Will you not introduce me to your companion, Mistress Darrell?"

Elizabeth lifted her eyes heavenward for a moment before shaking her head and performing the introduction. "Lady Clara Tyrell, may I present Master Thomas Wyatt," she said lightly.

Clara's eyes widened. Thomas Wyatt the Poet?

"Yes, the poet," Elizabeth confirmed, catching her surprised expression.

"Ah, you've heard of me," Wyatt said brightly, grinning at her. "I too have heard of the infamous and cruel Lady Tyrell."

Her mouth fell open. "Cruel?" she repeated, trying not to sound as aghast as she was. Were her rejected suitors honestly saying such things about her? And to Thomas Wyatt, no less, whose poetry she much admired? It was awful—his first impression of her would be of a cruel harpy, and she wasn't! She wasn't trying to be unkind to the young men—honestly, she wasn't. She really was doing her best to let them down in the most gentle and least humiliating way she knew. It wasn't that she was cruel or arrogant or enjoyed toying with them. She just... wasn't interested.

"He's teasing you, Lady Tyrell," Elizabeth interjected with a roll of her eyes, resting a reassuring hand on Clara's sleeve. "No one is calling you cruel. Don't take him seriously."

"Mistress Darrell will teach you not to believe a word I say," Wyatt quipped playfully, sending a pouting look towards the blonde, who rolled her eyes again—perhaps to hide the smile creeping across her lips.

"With good reason," Elizabeth retorted, a hint of coyness in her tone. "You are a poet, after all."

"Ah, you wound me, good woman," Wyatt said dramatically. He turned to Clara and gave her a wink. "Perhaps it's Mistress Darrell that's the cruel one."

Clara wasn't sure what to say to that. Her first reply—_we're not cruel, men are just stupid_—was discarded as potentially too shrewish, and her second—_are you flirting with me or her?_—as too naïve. Thankfully, though, she was spared from having to find a better response by the arrival of Henry Lovell.

Although perhaps 'thankfully' was not the correct adjective.

"Lady Tyrell!" Lovell cried, a massive smile on his face. "I have been looking for you! Would you care to dance?"

"I... er," Clara fumbled, reaching out to fasten her fingers onto Elizabeth's arm, as though Lovell would try to drag her away by force. "Actually, I was talking with Mistress Darrell and Master Wyatt—Thomas Wyatt, the poet," she added with a smile that she wasn't sure looked normal or unhinged or desperate. "Have your read any of his poetry? It's brilliant, I quite adore it."

Lovell's smile was slowly deflating—though she thought he'd be used to it by now—and Clara felt a little like she'd just kicked a puppy, just as she always did when she had to discourage him. But she was resolved, and had been since before she'd even come to court: no suitors. So while she felt bad for Henry Lovell, she didn't feel bad enough to dance with him or do anything else which could be construed as "encouraging".

But she did offer him an apologetic smile and gestured to a throng of ladies on the other side of the hall. "Perhaps you might ask another lady to dance? You are a very sweet boy, and I'm sure someone else would be more than happy to indulge you," she offered.

That didn't seem to assuage Lovell's feelings much, but he nevertheless accepted her brush-off, gave her a bow, and scurried away, ears bright red.

The minute Lovell was out of everyone's earshot but Clara's, Thomas Wyatt started laughing. "Oh, you are cruel, Lady Tyrell," he chuckled. At her wounded expression, he added, "Cruel in the kindest possible way, but cruel nonetheless."

Clara frowned at him. "How was I cruel? Admittedly, rejection is inherently unkind, but leading him on would be crueller still, and I'm trying to reject him as gently as I know how. I've no experience with these matters," she mumbled grumpily. She heaved a sigh. "What would've been kinder, Master Wyatt? Advise me, pray."

Wyatt laughed again. "Well, I wouldn't have called him a 'very sweet boy', for one," he pointed out amusedly. "That was perhaps the cruellest blow of all. No man wants the woman he's attempting to court to pat him on the head and call him a boy."

"Oh," said Clara, wincing a little. "Yes, I suppose I can understand that."

Elizabeth and Wyatt shared a look, which Clara presumed was amusement at her expense. Then Wyatt turned back to her and grinned. "So, you quite adore my brilliant poetry?"

Clara's cheeks went as red as the bricks of Hampton Court, and she buried her face in her hands.

"Don't tease her, Master Wyatt," she heard Elizabeth chide, and then felt the other's woman's hand on her arm. "Pay him no mind, Lady Tyrell. He's the cruel one," she whispered in a tone that was meant to be overheard, especially when Clara lifted her face from her hands to see the blonde frowning at the poet.

"He is the cruel one," Clara agreed, pouting a little at Wyatt.

Wyatt just shook his head and smiled. "I tender my humble apologies then, my ladies," he surrendered with a courtly bow.

They talked of poetry—both Wyatt's and other peoples'—for a time, though Clara did not think she made her best showing. The man probably thought she was a stammering ninny. Eventually Wyatt left them alone and moved off to talk to some other friends, and once he was gone Elizabeth Darrell tapped her on the shoulder.

"Be careful, Lady Tyrell," the blonde warned. Clara tilted her head curiously, and Elizabeth cast a dark look in the direction Wyatt had gone off. "If you mean to safeguard your reputation, do not spend much time in the company of Thomas Wyatt."

Clara's eyebrows flew upwards in surprise, but she nodded gravely nonetheless. While she would've liked to spend more time talking to Master Wyatt (ideally when she was less nervous, and could make a better showing of herself), she could easily avoid him if it would be dangerous to her reputation—as apparently it was. Apparently these rumours about Master Wyatt were true; Elizabeth would probably know best, having known him longer. Or perhaps... well, they were flirting a bit, weren't they, Mistress Darrell and Master Wyatt? Perhaps Elizabeth was warning her off because she'd run afoul of Wyatt's womanising ways in the past?

Either way, Clara was very gentle when she replied, "Thank you for the warning, Mistress Darrell."

The subject changed after that, as Elizabeth asked more questions about Arthur and about Clara's battle with George Spencer. Clara was finishing her indignant narration about Spencer's deplorable behaviour on the day she'd come to Whitehall when she heard Maud asking for her. Bearing in mind Cromwell's adjunction to conceal the sensitivity of her hearing, she didn't react to the sound of her name aside from a twitch as she forced herself not to turn and react.

Still, she was very conscious of Maud's approach, and was relieved when the other woman finally stepped up beside her and said, "Clara, there you are. I've been looking for you. Mistress Darrell, good evening," she added, giving the other woman a nod. "I'm glad Clara was able to find a chaperone in my absence. I saw Henry Lovell moping about as though someone killed his dog—I presume he found you?"

"He did," Clara sighed, rolling her eyes. "I don't know whether I should deplore his stupidity or laud his perspicacity. Either way, he refuses to leave me alone."

"Lady Tyrell sent him away swiftly, the poor lamb," Mistress Darrell informed Maud laughingly. "She called him a sweet boy and shooed him off as though he were a lad of ten."

That made Maud laugh as well. "Oh Clara, that was cruel," she chuckled. "The poor boy's in love with you, and you treat him like he's a child."

"He's not in love with me," Clara replied immediately. "Infatuated, perhaps, with an eye on my fortune, but he's not in love with me. He doesn't know enough about me to love me."

She was firm on this point. Though Clara did love to read courtly romances and the tales of King Arthur, as she grew older she'd thankfully realised that they had little to do with the way people in real life related to one another. Nowadays, she little believed in love at first sight. Perhaps there could be an instant attraction, but that had more to do with lust than love, and while foolish people might mistake one for the other, she would not. Love was something that grew—it could grow quickly or slowly or not grow at all, but it grew, and therefore needed the time and the environment to do so. It was possible for love to grow out of lust, she supposed, just as it was possible for them to coexist. But to her thinking it was impossible for a man to declare that he loved her if he knew nothing about her, and for her part she found it even a little insulting to have someone so wholly unknown to her proclaim ardent love.

Her resolute declaration seemed to shock both Maud and Elizabeth; the two ladies shared a look, and then Maud remarked carefully, "That is surprisingly cynical of you, Clara."

"It's not cynicism, it's common sense," Clara insisted. "What does Henry Lovell—what do any of them—know of me? That I'm a rich widow with only one young son and I like to read. How could they possibly know me—and therefore love me—with such a paucity of information? They can't, that's how, and since I'm only middling pretty on my best days, it's not my looks that are attracting them. Ergo, it has to be my money."

Elizabeth shook her head and chuckled a little. "I've changed my mind, Lady Tyrell. Go talk to Master Wyatt—I'd be interested in hearing the two of you debate about love," the blonde remarked pertly.

Maud stepped in, then, before Clara could reply, and said, "Perhaps not at this exact moment, since that would be a conversation I would like to witness as well. However, my cousin Anthony expressed an interest in being introduced to Lady Tyrell. If you would excuse us, Mistress Darrell?" she inquired politely.

Elizabeth excused them, of course, moving off to find another throng of friends, and Maud led Clara through the crowds towards the other side of the room. "Cousin?" she said quizzically, inviting Maud to elaborate.

"My cousin Tony," Maud confirmed. "Sir Anthony Knivert. He's the son of my father's younger brother."

And one of the King's closest companions—Clara knew that well enough. Nearly every courtier made a point of knowing who was closest to the King at any given time, and Anthony Knivert had been a boon companion for nearly ten years. But that wasn't what she'd meant. She knew who Maud's cousin was, and who his friends were, but she was more curious about why Anthony Knivert was interested in an introduction, to the point of sending Maud off to find her.

Before she could ask, however, Maud led her up to a couple of richly-dressed gentlemen who couldn't have been much older than Clara and sank into a curtsey. Clara followed suit a moment later and wondered who she was curtseying to. "Your Grace, Cousin Tony," Maud greeted politely.

The two gentlemen turned to see them. One of them was a handsome, sturdy man with a square jaw, cropped dark hair, and bright blue eyes. The other was lankier, with floppy brown hair and blue eyes. That one would be Tony Knivert, most likely, especially since Clara thought she could pick out a slight similarity to Maud around his blue eyes, and there was something similar in the line of their jaws. Though Knivert was a much more handsome man than Maud was a woman.

"May I present Lady Clara Tyrell?" Maud went on, once she was acknowledged. "Lady Tyrell, this is my cousin, Sir Anthony Knivert, and His Grace, the Duke of Suffolk."

Clara sank into a deep curtsey, answered by shallower bows from the two men, and murmured softly as she rose, "Your Grace, Sir Anthony."

"Lady Tyrell," the Duke of Suffolk acknowledged briefly, letting his gaze rake over her body from the top of her head to the hem of her gown.

Clara fought the urge to fidget under his scrutiny and cover her breasts; the way he looked at her was almost as though he was undressing her with those clear blue eyes... which, given what she'd heard of His Grace's reputation, was not at all unlikely, she supposed. Thankfully, his regard did not linger long on her—apparently he found her unattractive or otherwise somehow unworthy of his attentions—and soon enough the Duke was directing his attention elsewhere. She felt perversely insulted at being thus dismissed, even as she was relieved that she wouldn't have to gently reject another man's advances.

Having been dismissed by Suffolk, her attention was brought back to Sir Anthony. "It's a pleasure to meet you at last, Lady Tyrell. How are you enjoying court thus far?" he inquired politely, his eyes remaining courteously on her face and not straying any lower.

Clara thought quickly; she didn't think her discomfort with much of the court's accoutrements and occupants really needed to be stated—especially not to such a long-time courtier as Anthony Knivert. But what could she say instead, to pair truth with tact? "I am glad to have made many new friends, Sir Anthony," she replied vaguely.

There; though her reply was not the whole truth, it was a truth. She was happy that she'd made many new friends, who were clever and witty and whose company she enjoyed, and whose presence could protect her from George Spencer's malice. She cast a smile at Maud, implying that the other woman was one of the aforementioned new friends—and that was the truth, too. Maud had truly become a friend, no matter how uncomfortable Clara occasionally found her company (though that was more due to circumstance than character).

Both Kniverts smiled widely at that—Maud at the evidence that her efforts at making a friend of Clara had borne fruit, and Sir Anthony at the compliment to his cousin. But no one spoke for a long moment, until Sir Anthony glanced at the Duke of Suffolk and coughed pointedly.

The cough seemed to jolt Suffolk out of his contemplation, and he turned back to the trio with a broad grin. "Lady Knivert, perhaps you'd indulge me in a pavane?" he inquired, extending a hand to Maud in an invitation that had clearly been previously coordinated (and, judging by Sir Anthony's unsubtle cough, nearly forgotten) beforehand.

With the faintest hint of a frown, Maud accepted the Duke's hand and allowed him to lead her out onto the dance floor, leaving her cousin and Clara alone, much to the latter's discomfort. Clara presumed the expression on Maud's face to mean that she was not part of whatever scheme the Duke of Suffolk and Sir Anthony had concocted—reassuring, of course, since she didn't like to think that her friend would treat with her thusly.

Sir Anthony took her arm and pulled her back behind a stand of candles, out of sight of most of the dancers. Clara immediately tensed. "I need to speak with you, privately," he explained, perhaps feeling the tension in her arm and wanting to forestall any outbursts on her part.

"Is there not... could you not... Sir Anthony, this is most improper—" Clara stammered nervously, casting her eyes around for appropriate chaperonage. Was Elizabeth Darrell anywhere near? What about Bess Darcy, or Anne Clifford, or any of the Queen's other ladies? While Anthony Knivert didn't have the same expansive reputation for wenching and carousing that Suffolk or Thomas Wyatt did, he was still not a man it would do her reputation good to be caught dallying with, and she'd need a chaperone immediately.

"I know," Knivert interrupted, tossing his head like a headstrong horse. "Maud's told me all about your efforts to avoid any man with a hint of eligibility—it's hilarious. But there's caution, Lady Tyrell, and then there's paranoia. Please calm yourself; I've got absolutely no interest in courting you, and we really need to have this conversation."

"I am of course at your disposal, Sir Anthony," Clara replied, feeling slightly stung by his implicit rejection (though she would never have solicited his attentions, it was slightly disheartening to have so many powerful men snub her off-hand) and annoyed by his dismissal of her very real concerns. She did her best to keep the tartness out of her voice, but wasn't sure how successful she was—probably not very, given the narrow look Knivert turned on her immediately after. It made her wince, inwardly; mouthing off to one of the King's closest friends was probably not a good way to advance at court. She gentled her tone and inquired, "What did you need to speak to me about?"

"Your brother," Knivert replied with a scowl.

Well, it was not a wholly surprising response—after all, what else did they have in common, and what else would have necessitated sending Maud away? What was surprising was that Knivert was bringing it to her attention, instead of talking to Benedict directly.

"He has been betrothed to my cousin for nearly six months, now," Knivert went on, expression grim. "They will be marrying in June. And he has not deigned to make himself known to her, or send her any messages or tokens, or anything. For six months, Lady Tyrell. The insult to Maud—and therefore to myself and my family—is getting too much to bear."

Clara tried not to show her trepidation openly, but she knew her face had gone pale, and when she swallowed it felt as though there was a lump in her throat. "I..." she began, but her voice failed her. She tried again. "I..." But she could think of nothing to say, and it was hard to contrive anything around the cold knot of fear in her gut.

Knivert's face softened a little. "I don't mean to frighten you, Lady Tyrell, or imply that I am wroth with you—indeed, you alone of all your family have made my cousin feel welcomed," he assured her warmly. "And I do not doubt that you will likewise be a loyal, loving sister upon her marriage."

Clara wasn't sure if that was a declaration of faith in her character, or some kind of oblique threat. She decided that, given the preceding statements, it was probably the former. "I hope always to show myself a loving sister to my family," she managed awkwardly.

After saying that, she fell quiet, though Knivert was still looking at her expectantly, as if expecting her to say more. However, Clara wasn't sure what else he wanted her to say, and she was keenly aware of his power around court and his harsh words against her brother and her family earlier in the conversation. Silence seemed safer.

Finally, Knivert seemed to tire of waiting on her reply, and spoke himself. "Lady Tyrell, I was hoping that you, as a loving sister, might be willing to speak with your brother, and persuade him to show himself gallant to my cousin," he informed her frankly.

Now that he'd said it, Clara felt a bit dense for not understanding sooner. Of course that was why Knivert had desired to speak with her. He wanted her to use whatever influence she had with her brother to convince him to act more kindly towards his betrothed, before Benedict's childish behaviour incited Maud's male relatives to seek satisfaction for the implied insults.

"Of course, Sir Anthony!" Clara assured him, now that she had a clearer understanding of what he sought. "I am full willing to speak with my brother, and convince him to end his sulks and be kind to his future wife. Not that he wouldn't, in any case!" she was quick to amend. She didn't want to give Knivert the impression that Ben would be cruel to or heavy-handed with his wife—he wouldn't! "My brother is a good man, I assure you, and would never be churlish to any woman, let alone his wife. He is merely... out of sorts with our father, you see."

Knivert's brow furrowed a bit, and he tilted his head to the side. It was plain enough that he did not see. "Your father?" he repeated. "What does your father have to do with his behaviour towards my cousin?"

"Father was the one who arranged the marriage, against Benedict's inclinations," Clara explained, pausing for a bare moment as she tried to fumble for a truth to tell Sir Anthony without telling him the whole truth. "Ben... does not yet feel ready to be responsible for a wife and a family, but our father would not be gainsaid, and Ben was very... upset."

Knivert raised a brow at her—perhaps he could hear some of what she left unsaid, or perhaps he, as a young man in a similar situation, had a few accurate guesses as to the reasons why Benedict Gage might not be ready for a wife and family. Clara blushed a little under his scrutiny, and fought the urge to duck her head and hide behind her hair (not the least because her hair was caught back under a hood).

That made him laugh. "Ah, Lady Tyrell, you are a funny thing," Knivert said, shaking his head and grinning. "But I thank you for your willingness to oblige me. I can only hope your brother proves also willing."

"He will," Clara promised darkly. If she had anything to say about it, Benedict would definitely prove himself willing.

Knivert laughed again, loudly, and his merriment was easily heard over the final bars of the pavane, as the music slowed and came to an end. Clara tensed, aware of the many eyes that were seeking out the source of the laughter, and worried about what conclusions they might draw. She and Knivert were somewhat secluded out of the common way.

But Knivert just clapped a large hand on her shoulder and jostled her a bit, as though she was one of his drinking companions. "I like you, Lady Clara Tyrell," he informed her jovially. "I look forward to the day when we shall be cousins. Will you dance?" he inquired, gesturing to where courtiers were pairing up for a galliard.

Clara allowed Sir Anthony to take her hand and lead her out onto the dance floor. Maud, still partnered with the Duke of Suffolk, cast her a quizzical look, and Clara smiled reassuringly back, trying to wordlessly convey that everything was fine. Doubtlessly Maud would seek her out for conversation later, wanting to know why her cousin had so desired to speak with her alone. And since Clara was not about to tell her the truth, she would have to find some way to put her off, or contrive a less awkward truth to tell her.

After all, one uncomfortable conversation a night was her limit.

* * *

_20 April, 1529_

It took her a few days, but finally Clara had pinned down her brother. At long last, he wasn't absent, or on his way elsewhere, and she wasn't otherwise occupied or on an errand for the queen.

Admittedly, it was six in the morning and he was in bed and she was looming over him like a disappointed parent.

But whatever it took.

Eventually, Benedict felt the weight of her stare and began to stir. He rolled over and opened a bleary green eye. It took him a moment to process what he was seeing, but Clara knew the moment he did: he startled as if someone had dug their spurs into his flank, and flailed away from her. "Sweet Jesu!" he swore. "Clare, what the devil are you doing?"

"We need to talk," Clara informed him grimly.

Ben sat up and raked his hands through his messy hair before dragging them down to rub at his eyes. "At... what time is it?"

"A little after five, I think."

"What on earth could we possibly need to discuss at five in the morning?" Ben demanded grumpily, his voice muffled by his hands as he scrubbed at his face.

"The fact that not five days hence I was threatened by Sir Anthony Knivert?" Clara supplied acidly. The past three days had provided her with ample time to rehash her interaction with the King's boon companion, and to allow her anger with her brother's childish behaviour to grow.

That got Ben's attention, and he jerked his head out of his hands. "You were what?" he demanded. "God's blood, Clara, if he did anything to you—"

"He didn't do anything to me," Clara snapped. "Instead, he was threatening satisfaction for wrongs you have done him."

That seemed to confuse him, and Ben just blinked at her blankly. Clara wondered if she shouldn't have waited until her brother was already up and a little more alert, but then dismissed it. It was hard enough to find uninterrupted, private time to have a serious discussion without taking into account such pithy little things as being fully awake. They were both here now, and it was time to seize the day.

"Maud Knivert, you clotpole!" she hissed, after a few moments had passed and her brother still showed no signs of understanding what she was talking about. "Honestly, Ben, what else would Anthony Knivert have to talk to me about?"

"And so he threatened you?" Ben asked incredulously.

Of course, that was the part he'd fixate on. "Forget the threatening," Clara sighed in aggravation. "If anything, I'm merely the messenger for the threat. The recipient is you. And the family, but mostly you." Suddenly, she was fumingly, vehemently angry. "You utter joithead, he's one of the King's best friends, and you're all but jilting his cousin!" she snarled. "If you carry on like this, you can bid farewell to the possibility of any advancement at court! That is, if we're not banished in disgrace!

"What in God's name do you think you're doing? Did you want to make sure everyone knows how much you resent this marriage? Fine, I think everyone from Calais to Berwick is well aware you do not wish to wed. Were you intending to send a message to Maud that you do not want her and that she will never hold your heart? I think she knows by now! Was it for Agnes—are you trying to reassure her that it is she you love? I don't think she'd want you blasting your prospects at court for her! Or were you trying to drive Father, or the Knivert family, into breaking the match altogether?" she challenged, inspiring a dull flush on her brother's unshaven cheeks which implied that she'd hit close to the mark. "He's obviously not going to. And anyway, unless Lord Sedley dies within the next two months—which is profoundly unlikely—you'll never be able to marry Agnes.

"Grow up, Benedict," she ordered him scornfully, watching her brother wilt like a plucked flower, even as he clenched his fists in his lap. "We cannot afford to insult the Knivert family—and at this point, that is all that your disregard is doing. If this goes on for much longer, Sir Anthony will call you out—and you'll deserve it."

Ben heaved a resentful, but resigned, sigh. "I know, Clare. I know," he acknowledged bitterly, throwing his hands up. "It's just so unfair."

Clara's eyes widened. "Unfair?" she repeated harshly. "Unfair! How dare you talk to me—me, and the shade of our sister—of unfairness? Was it unfair when we were wed to men of Father's choosing, instead of our own?" she demanded. "Stop being so selfish. So you don't get to choose your spouse? Well, neither did I, neither did Rosamond, neither did Agnes or Father or Marion or even poor Maud herself, for that matter. What makes you so special that your arranged marriage is unfair?"

Now her brother was looking like a scolded five-year-old. Her heart softened, but she was still too angry with him to even consider relenting. "It's gone on long enough, Benedict, do you understand? Far too long. Your wedding is less than two months again, and you've never even spoken to your intended," Clara said, slightly more calm but not one whit less determined. "Her family is angry, and I need not reiterate how close to His Majesty Sir Anthony is. And furthermore, as a woman myself, who was once in this same situation, I can honestly tell you that Maud is doubtless feeling frightened and unsure. She has been a good friend to me, and I am ashamed that my own brother treats her so ill.

"Therefore, you are going to present yourself to her—today," she ordered firmly, glaring her brother into submission when he looked to protest. "I will chaperone, if it would make you more comfortable, but you are going to meet her and have some honest conversation, and in so doing assuage her fears and pacify her cousin. Stop behaving like a spoiled, selfish child," she finished, voice hard as nails. "You can't hide from this anymore, Ben. Putting your head under the bedclothes won't make it go away. It's time to act like the good man I know you have the potential to be."

She heard Ben swallow loudly once she'd finished her speech, and watched him fiddle with the bedclothes and hang his head like a schoolboy. "It's a pity you aren't raising Arthur, sister," he eventually remarked, sounding at once sulky and wry. "You read a good lecture."

As Clara puffed herself up in rage, and prepared herself to deliver another blistering scolding, Ben finally lifted his head met her eyes. Reading her building anger, he held up a hand to restrain her. "You're right, though—I'm not so proud that I can't admit that you're right," he admitted humbly, thereby pacifying his sister's fury. He heaved another sigh and flopped back against his pillows. "I know I've behaved badly. I was just hoping..." he trailed off, then shook his head. "Never mind what I hoped. It was a fool's dream. I'll speak with her today, sister, I promise. You're right; it has gone on long enough."

Her anger thus diffused, Clara sighed softly in relief and sat down on the edge of her brother's bed. "Thank you," she said gratefully. She reached out and took one of her brother's hands in hers. "I know Maud is not your bride of choice, but she is a gentle, pleasant lady. And she is my friend," she added softly. "I hope that you will treat her kindly and respectfully once you're wed."

"What? Of course I will, Clare, what kind of man do you think I am?" Ben retorted with a scowl, sounding offended. "Though I may not love her, I would never mistreat her."

"Good," Clara said, relived. She didn't think her brother would be vicious enough to take out his frustrations on his wife, but it was reassuring to hear him say it for sure. "And perhaps you will come to love her in time. Love so often grows in such circumstances," she murmured, thinking back to her marriage to Robin. They had started out as near-strangers, grown into friendship, and eventually friendship had turned to love until Robin was like her second self, her constant companion and her dearest friend. His absence still ached a little... but he was dead, and she was not, and the world kept moving though Sir Robert Tyrell was no longer in it.

"Perhaps," Ben allowed, sounding somewhat dubious. "But having love grow up between two strangers trapped in a marriage together—loving by default, as it were—is not quite the same as falling in love, of having passion for someone of your own heart's choosing."

This was also true, Clara agreed inwardly, her thoughts flying across the Channel to a dark-haired man who currently abided in Rome. Her feelings for Thomas bore few similarities to those she had for Robin. Loving Robin was like sitting down before a warm hearth-fire on a chilly day—comforting and warming and reliable. Whereas feeling... whatever it was she felt for Thomas was more like standing at the edge of a tall tower on a windy day: exhilarating and wonderful and terrifying and able to made her feel incontrovertibly alive. There were still hearth-fire moments, like when the two of them would retire to Thomas' closet and talk about books or religion or politics, but on the whole it was much less... sedate.

Ben broke her out of her contemplation when he moved to get out of bed. "I suppose I might as well get up and dress now," he said dryly, "since I doubt I'll be able to get back to sleep now. When do you suppose would be the best time to approach Lady Knivert?"

"Her Majesty generally releases us for a time around two or three o'clock," Clara replied, standing and straightening her skirts. "I can lead her out to the gardens or the bower, if you like, once we've been dismissed."

"That would be appreciated," Benedict accepted, heaving himself out of bed. "I don't know what I'll tell her, though."

"The truth?" Clara suggested.

Ben rolled his eyes. "Anything but that," he said, shooing her out from behind his screened-off sleeping area.

"Would you like me to accompany you?" Clara offered quietly, before leaving him to his own devices.

"Thank you for the offer, Clare," Ben replied, smiling weakly at her, "but I think this is something I had better do on my own. Time for me to be a man," he quipped, echoing her earlier words.

"I have faith in you, Ben," Clara told him as she moved over to her own section of the rooms, feeling nearly weightless with relief. Ben would talk to Maud, and hopefully they'd get everything sorted out, and then Sir Anthony wouldn't ruin their prospects at court. If she were banished in disgrace, it might be the ammunition George Spencer needed to take Arthur away from her, and that she would never countenance.

But as she settled down with a book and waited for the sun to rise high enough to leave for the Queen's apartments, Clara couldn't quite pull her mind all the way back to England; a large part of it was still in Rome with Thomas Cromwell. She wondered when he would return—it had been almost three months since she'd last seen him, and she'd only received one letter—for she missed him. She wondered what he would think of Lady Clara Tyrell, courtier. Would he be proud of her for learning to navigate the dangerous waters of Whitehall alone? Would he tease her about her struggles as she learned to arrange her face? Would he be disappointed that she had not heard anything of any political use, or would he laugh at her for collecting women's gossip?

Would he be amused at her popularity with the young gentlemen of court, or angered?

Would he like the new dresses she was ordering for June, when her year of mourning would be over and she could put aside her black?

Would he kiss her again?

...Would he even want to?

Clara sighed and closed her eyes, setting her book aside as her mind flew back once more to that winter's night before the fire. She was almost embarrassed by the frequency with which she sat back and remembered those moments, as though she was taking them out of a chest in her mind and turning them over and over in her hands. Though unlike a letter or a piece of cloth, the memories did not fade with repeated handlings. Which was why she'd get no reading done now, with her attention so wholly overthrown by the ghost of Thomas Cromwell's lips on hers.

What was she to do? Thomas had been gone for months, and though she had been thinking about what she wanted from him, as requested, she had yet to arrive at any conclusions. Or rather, the conclusions she'd arrived at were unhelpful in the extreme.

When she began pondering this issue, she knew for certain that she wanted to have Thomas Cromwell involved in her life in some capacity—that had never been in doubt. Knowing that Thomas was beneath her, socially, and that marrying him would enrage her father and possibly loose her Arthur, she had posited that perhaps they would be dear friends but nothing more. Nothing between them would change, and surely she could manage to forget the sensation of his hands on her thighs eventually, could she not? If he were to court and marry another woman one day, she could bear it, could she not? (Though she confessed the mere image of it in her mind's eye was enough to turn her stomach.)

However, the idea of mere, though dear, friendship was soon thrown out as a workable option. There had been several reasons for this.

She had told herself that if she was going to allow for the imagining of Thomas' remarriage, she should likewise imagine her own. Lord knew there were plenty of young men flocking around her, hoping to marry the rich young widow. So, she posited the idea that she would remarry one of the gentlemen of court, and tried to imagine her ideal future husband. She'd like him to be kind, of course, and intelligent, with a measure of experience around court, so that he could give her advice when she required it. He should be strong enough to stand up to Spencer and her father if need be, but gentle with her son and their other children (because surely they would have some). He should make her laugh, and for safety's sake should share her religious leanings, and it would be pleasant if he were handsome as well. The image of a fair-haired, blue-eyed man with chiselled features—the ideal of English masculinity—didn't please her, so Clara substituted dark hair for blonde. That was better—and better still were curls! After all, they made it much more interesting and pleasant for her fingers when she combed them through this imaginary man's hair. And perhaps a dimple in his chin, to add some character to his face, and perhaps make the ears a bit larger, for her own pleasure...

...Wait.

All right, start over. Clara built another imaginary husband in her head, patterning him instead off Robert Tyrell. She gave him the same loyalty and honour, the same kindness, the same tenderness, the same golden-brown hair and the same smiling blue eyes. And since she was making an ideal, she removed the preference for eels, the tendency to leave his boots where she always tripped over them, the smell of his feet after the boots came off, the extreme fondness for riding around the countryside to jab spears into animals, and the snoring (please, Jesu, get rid of the snoring). She grafted on instead a belief in Lutheranism, a dryer sense of humour, an inclination to treat her more like an equal and less like an air-headed girl, and a greater enjoyment of reading. There—an ideal husband.

Except as she dreamed up what her life would be like, married to this pretend man, there was a slow shift in her imaginings as she refined her ideal. His eyes slowly became more grey than blue, without her notice, and his hair became darker for contrast; she added traits as they pleased her, making him learned and well-travelled and perhaps with children of his own already, so that Arthur might have some playmates, and when she next sank into a daydream she realised once again that her fantasy husband was, essentially, Thomas Cromwell.

Begin again! This time, perhaps she'd pattern her pretend husband after... say, Thomas More (even if the idea of marrying Thomas More made her feel a little queasy and sick, he was still an admirable man, and she could change all those things about him which displeased her). She'd make her imaginary husband as fervent a Lutheran as More was a Catholic, let him keep More's dark hair but give him Robin's blue eyes and Thomas' ears (since they'd apparently show up on their own sooner or later), and make him a little less rigidly moral, and thereby more understanding of Clara's own ethical failings.

It only took two days, that time, for the imaginary man to shift into Thomas Cromwell. She had just heaved a sigh, and began to build up her imaginary husband again.

After the sixth time her invented husband became Thomas Cromwell, she gave up.

But Clara had known for certain that friendship alone was not an option the moment she'd followed the Queen out of mass on Sunday and realised she'd spent the whole service thinking about Thomas Cromwell's eyes, and trying to precisely recall their exact colour. Were they the silver of the Queen's necklace, or closer to the gauzy grey of Mistress Percy's veil, or more like the pewter hue of the candelabra in the back? Or were they blue? She'd seen blue in those eyes before—not the deep blue of the sapphires which adorned the chain around the King's shoulders, or the bright blue of the sunlight streaming through the stained glass, but a softer blue, like the embroidery on back of the priest's vestments. (And wouldn't Thomas just hate that comparison?)

But though complimentary, those thoughts were not particularly friendly. Friends did not devote that much contemplation to their other friends' physical attributes. Besides, how was she supposed to look Thomas in the eye and tell him she only wanted to be friends when it was his name on her lips when she awoke from heated dreams with the sheets tangled around her legs? That would make her a liar, and Clara was much opposed to lying.

So they had to be more than friends. More than friends, but less than lovers—and here was where Clara's contemplation had stalled, because she wasn't precisely sure there even was such a thing. Her own feelings were too warm for friendship alone, but her conscience would never allow her to become any man's lover outside the bounds of wedlock. Not even a man who kissed as well as Thomas Cromwell.

Clara sighed softly, and rested her chin on her hand as she stared out the window. She was aware that she could solve all those problems by marrying him; they would still be friends, but they could indulge their lust for one another without consequence. But the minute the thought crossed her mind, she tossed it away with a shake of her head. Not because she didn't want to marry him, but more that she couldn't conceive of a world in which she was able to. Therefore, she refused to contemplate the matter, as it would just torment her with something she was unable to have. No sense in breaking her heart over impossibilities, after all.

And it was all just conjuncture, anyway—Thomas hadn't said or done anything that implied he even wanted to marry her. Perhaps he just wanted a tumble or two in addition to whatever information she heard in the Queen's rooms. After all, he was rich enough not to need her money, he had a son of his own so he didn't need her to bear him another, and he was powerful enough to have other, much prettier women throwing themselves at him. What would he want with mousey, plain little Clara Tyrell?

The sound of people entering the apartment caught her attention, and she turned away from the window to realise that the servants were laying out breakfast. It was already time to eat her morning meal before beginning her duties for the day. It seemed she'd once again lost an hour or more in contemplation of Thomas Cromwell.

She stopped by the mirror on her way out the door to straighten her hood and ensure she still looked presentable. Then she was off on her way to the Queen's apartments to attend to Her Majesty—though doubtlessly Katherine was already awake and at prayer. She sought Maud out immediately when she entered the royal chambers, finding her friend fetching linen towels for Her Majesty's morning ablutions.

"Good morning, Clara," Maud greeted warmly as Clara materialised at her side. She had stopped startling after two weeks of soundless approaches, which would serve her in good stead when she married Benedict.

Speaking of Benedict... "Good morning, Maud," she replied, falling into step with her friend and moving to assist her with the towels. "Have you any plans for later this afternoon?" While Ben did not necessarily want her as a chaperone or need her for moral support, that didn't mean Clara couldn't help make his path to Maud as smooth as possible.

Maud glanced over at her in slight confusion as they lay the towels near the fire to warm. "No, I have not. Why?"

"My brother wants to introduce himself you," Clara said softly.

Her opinion of Maud's fortitude rose when the lady's only reaction was a sharp gasp and a swift drain of colour from her cheeks. "Oh," she breathed, too soft for anyone but Clara to hear. "Oh." Maud swallowed a few times, and took in a shaky breath or two. "Well, he certainly took his time about it, didn't he?" she tried to quip playfully, but her voice was trembling a little too much to manage it.

"He was angry with our father, and trying to convince him to break the match. He doesn't feel ready to be married to anyone; it had nothing to do with you," Clara soothed gently. This was true; Ben would've reacted this badly had he been told to marry any lady who wasn't Agnes.

Maud just nodded jerkily before she visibly composed herself, closing her eyes while breathing slowly and deeply. Once she was mistress of her feelings, she opened her mouth to continue the conversation; however, the Queen chose that moment to emerge from her devotions, pulling their attention away as they moved to attend her.

There was no time for private conversation as they attended the Queen as she washed, dressed, arranged her hair, chose her jewels, and broke her fast. It wasn't until they were settled down with their sewing (even Clara; though she still hated it, the constant practise had, by necessity, improved her needlework, and at least she was no longer decorating her work with her own blood) at mid-morning that there was any opportunity to continue the discussion they had begun earlier.

"When does he want to see me?" Maud inquired quietly as they bent over their needles. She didn't need to qualify which 'he' she was referring to, though two hours had passed since they began the conversation.

"Sometime this afternoon," Clara replied, pausing as she hemmed a shirt that was to be given to the poor as charity. "When the queen releases us for the afternoon, he will be waiting in the bower—I will show you where."

"Thank you," Maud murmured, reaching out to take Clara's hand.

"You're welcome, of course," Clara replied, somewhat confused. "Though I'm sure you could find him without—"

"No," Maud interrupted. "Thank you for arranging this. I know... he would not have done anything without your influence. Thank you for speaking with him, for persuading him to see me."

Clara turned her hand in Maud's grasp and squeezed it. "You are very welcome," she responded earnestly. "Forgive me for taking so long to do so." _And for requiring your cousin's prompting before it even occurred to me_, she added inwardly.

"How do I look?" Maud inquired, looking down at her sleeve. "Do I look... I know I am not a beautiful woman, but I want... should I change my gown before we meet?" She was wearing a rich gown of red and orange with a jewelled girdle and a red hood. It was a very fine dress, but it didn't do much for her appearance, making her skin look sallow and her eyes look colourless.

Clara cast around for something tactful to say. It was true, after all, that Maud was not a particularly attractive woman. She was kind, amiable, discreet, and a good friend, but she was not beautiful. Not that Clara was either, but since she herself was rather plain, she knew that denying Maud's assertions and trying to lie would just be annoying and insulting. So instead she pointed out helpfully, "You always look particularly well in blue." Which was true; it gave Maud's eyes a particular brightness.

Maud bit her lip thoughtfully before giving a nod. "I'll change my dress. I have a new one for spring that no one has seen yet; I might be a bit cold if the weather turns chill, but..." she trailed off, and then turned back to her sewing.

"I'll carry a wrap for you, if you like," Clara offered, wanting the meeting between her brother and her future sister-in-law to go as well as possible. She was much desirous that her brother would have a happy marriage, of course, but she was also hoping that perhaps love would grow between them and that Benedict would leave off his sin with Agnes. And since men so often loved with their eyes, she was eager to have Maud look her best.

The rest of the morning passed slowly; Clara was eager to get outside and begin laying the foundation for her brother's marriage, and though she was improving at it, sewing was still one of her least favourite pastimes. They talked of the meeting, and Clara was coaxed into sharing some childhood tales about her brother. Some of the other ladies soon joined the conversation, and by lunch most of the Queen's attendants knew that Lady Maud was to meet her bridegroom at long last.

Finally, though, the Queen dismissed them for the afternoon and retired to her chapel to pray. Maud and Clara barely waited until Her Majesty had closed the door before they were packing their work away and hurrying to Maud's suite of rooms, which she shared with several other maidens—all of which were also hurrying along behind them, giggling into their hands. There would be a veritable posse of ladies hovering around for Maud and Benedict's first meeting, and Clara was already feeling tired at the thought of having to wrangle them away to manage some privacy for her siblings.

Of course, another part of her was cheered to have so many ready chaperones.

"Here it is, what do you think?" Maud inquired, throwing open her clothes-press and pulling out a beautiful blue silk gown, which she then laid out onto her bed. "I was thinking of wearing it with this, for some extra warmth," she added, fetching a red velvet kirtle and sleeves and placing them next to the blue silk.

"Oh, that will look very well," one of the other ladies praised.

Maud smiled at the compliment, but looked to Clara. "It will," she concurred. "The blue will bring out your eyes, and the red is a fine contrast which should put some extra colour in your cheeks. Ben likes blue," she added encouragingly. Which was true. His favourite colour was green, admittedly, but Maud didn't own any green dresses.

Clara shooed Maud's dormitory mates out of the room as Maud changed, though she herself remained to help her with lacings and the arranging of her hair, as she once had for Rosamond and Marion. "How do I look?" Maud asked once she was dressed, straightening her hood in the mirror and then turning to present herself with a little twirl.

"You look very elegant," Clara replied warmly. Indeed, though she was not physically beautiful, Maud looked elegant and fashionable and like she would be a proper adornment for any man's arm. She hoped Benedict would appreciate their efforts on his behalf.

If he didn't, she'd box his ears.

Now that Maud was dressed, they linked arms and sallied forth towards the gardens, followed by Maud's group of roommates, who wanted to see the first meeting. Clara allowed that, after living with Maud since her betrothal, they probably deserved to see it... no matter how much the scrutiny would likely disconcert her brother. Well, he deserved it for putting this off so long.

As they passed through the gallery near the Secretary's closet, Clara glanced reflexively towards the door, feeling a pang of longing for her absent friend. But she caught sight of Ralph Sadler's gingery head weaving through the crowd in her direction. Their eyes met and his steps quickened, coming up swiftly behind the small group of ladies.

"Lady Tyrell, good afternoon," Ralph said, bowing at the waist to the ladies while still keeping pace with them—it was a neat trick, and Clara was certain that had she tried it herself, she would've fallen flat on her face. "Lady Knivert, Mistresses," he went on as the group of ladies halted and turned to him.

"Master Sadler," Clara greeted warmly, hoping her pleasure at seeing him would hide the nervousness underneath. How was she supposed to explain their acquaintance to Maud and the others? "How do you do today?"

"Very well, thank you, Lady Tyrell," Ralph replied. "And yourself?"

"I am also well, Master Sadler, thank you. We are going out to the gardens to meet my brother," Clara replied, trying to say without saying that now was not the best time.

"Of course. I will not keep you," Ralph assured her, hearing what she was leaving unsaid. "I merely wanted to wish you a good day and inquire after your son, whom I remember very fondly. I trust Master Spencer has made no trouble?"

"No, indeed he has not," Clara replied, slightly unsure of where he was going with this. "Arthur is well enough, I suppose. I shall be able to ascertain for myself when I fetch him for my brother's wedding in June."

"I hope there will be enough time for Master Tyrell to visit with old friends?" Ralph asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I should think so, yes," Clara nodded, wondering if he was referring to himself, or Thomas, or Richard. "I shall inform you when our plans are more settled."

"Thank you, Lady Tyrell." Ralph extended a hand out and Clara placed hers within it, allowing him to bow over it. His pale grey-blue eyes fixed on hers, warning her not to react, and that was the only reason she didn't startle when she felt him slip something—felt like parchment; it was a letter, she'd wager—into her sleeve. "Good day to you, my ladies." And with a more expansive bow encompassing Clara and her friends, he took his leave.

Maud barely waited until he had passed out of sight before taking Clara's arm and asking with arched brows, "Who was that?"

Keenly aware of the letter tucked surreptitiously into her sleeve, Clara just shrugged and started walking again. "That was Master Ralph Sadler. He was... of some service to me during Arthur's wardship hearing," she explained lightly.

"Was he?" Maud said, glancing askance at her friend, her tone of voice implying that she was curious about the nature of the service.

"Yes, he was," Clara returned repressively, aware of the others giggling behind her.

Maud was not put off, and was smiling slightly as she went on, "So, he has nothing to do with your disinterest in your suitors?"

Clara just gave her friend a flat, unamused look. "Nothing at all. Master Sadler did some useful services for me, but nothing more," she said firmly as she towed her friend out onto the lawns and towards the bower, the bushes of which were only just beginning to open its leaves, leaving the structure open enough that she could see her brother waiting within.

Maud's roommates hung back as Clara led Maud into the bower towards her brother. Benedict heard them coming, of course he did, and turned to watch their approach. His expression was neutral as he laid eyes on Maud, and Clara wasn't sure what he was thinking. Maud's grip on her arm was becoming almost painfully tight, and she was glad that Ralph had slipped the letter into her other sleeve.

"Brother, this is Lady Maud Knivert," she introduced quietly. "Maud, my brother Benedict. I'll leave you to become acquainted." It took a moment to extricate her arm from Maud's grasp, but eventually she was able to engineer her release and moved away, within eyeshot and earshot but far enough away that she was easily ignored.

Maud's dormitory mates had found a good vantage point near the curve of the bower, where the hedges concealed them mostly from view but where they could still see Benedict and Maud clearly. Clara joined them, but stood a little further away behind them, close enough that they would count as chaperones if needed, but far enough away for privacy. And once she was sure she was being ignored by everyone else, she reached into her sleeve and removed the letter Ralph had slipped in.

While she'd been able to guess the letter was from Thomas in Rome—why else would Ralph have taken such care to slip it to her secretly?—it was one thing to guess, and another to see the handwriting and the seal and know for certain. Her heart was pounding and fluttering as though she'd just been sprinting through the forest near Ardley towards her walnut tree, and her fingers were trembling with eagerness as she reached down and broke the seal.

The letter was full of gossip and news from Rome, conveyed in Thomas' desert-dry tones. She could almost hear him speaking the words in her ear, and she hoped none of the other ladies were aware of her, as they would doubtless be curious as to why she was smiling so widely. But she noticed as the letter went on that there was much mention of a courtesan named Sabina de Risi, and much praise of her beauty, her learning, and her wit. _The Lady Sabina looks like a woman from a Botticelli painting... Donna de Risi and I had a most interesting conversation about a Roman statue she keeps in her courtyard... I lost nearly ten crowns playing cards with Sabina, but was able to win it back a few nights later_... Sabina, Sabina, Sabina.

By the end of the missive, Clara was no longer smiling.

She folded the letter back into its original shape and tucked it into her pocket, feeling leaden and strangely hurt. It did no good to remind herself that she and Thomas had made no promises to one another, that they were not bound by anything save their own inclinations, and that inclinations could change. Telling herself that she had no claim on him and that if he wanted to take up with some Italian courtesan that was his prerogative did nothing to quash the ache in the middle of her chest. The idea that she'd been set aside for some Roman harlot was agonising.

How could he? While he'd made her no promises, his words as he'd taken leave of her had implied that he would wait. How could he have changed his mind and not told her? How could he torment her with her successor like this, rubbing her nose in the fact that she'd been replaced in his affections? Or was she just being overly sensitive and insecure?

Clara heaved a sigh and forced back the tears that were burning at the back of her eyes. There was nothing she could do until Thomas returned. If he returned with a courtesan in tow, she would just have to clench her teeth and bear it. And if he did not—if this was just her imagination playing tricks on her... well then... well...

Well. She'd have to see.

Having recollected herself, Clara moved closer to the throng of other ladies, who were still watching Maud and Ben, who were still conversing quietly. Not so quietly that Clara could not hear, but still quietly. The topic of their discussion seemed to be horses, which was innocuous enough. She'd hoped the two of them would've been able to address more serious issues and have a frank, honest discussion like the one she and Robin had undertaken upon their first meeting... but perhaps they had covered those topics while Clara had been otherwise occupied with her letter.

Nevertheless, Ben and Maud seemed to be getting on all right. Still a little awkward, with no real warmth or passion between one another, but very cordial nonetheless. Not bad for a first meeting between two people engaged to be married sight unseen.

Clara closed her eyes. _Please, O Lord, let them make a good marriage_, she prayed silently, her lips barely moving. _Let them come to love each other—or at least respect each other. Help them build something worthy and long-lasting to Your greater glory and praise. Guide them to happiness like unto that which I shared and built and had with Robin_.

But when she opened her eyes again, she could see nothing of herself and Robert reflected in Benedict and Maud. There was nothing of the tentative openness and the fragile sort of alliance she'd remembered from the early days of herself and Robin. It was just two people—two strangers—talking.

And though she tried to have hope that they would grow together in time, a part of her was still stung by foreboding.

* * *

_25 April, 1529_

Clara looked up from her book and smiled faintly when Sir Thomas More entered the Queen's apartments. She had not seen much of him of late; she had been much at court, and he had been much at his home. Perhaps there would be time later to converse with him?

She tried to catch his eye, but he took no notice of her, focussed intently on the Queen. Well, that was seemly enough; Katherine was the Queen of England. But it still stung a little, that she was so easily overlooked. Overlooked by every Thomas in her life, it seemed.

Sir Thomas was followed by a man it took Clara a moment to place as John Fisher, the Bishop of Rochester. The moment she saw him, she knew why Sir Thomas had brought him. Fisher was reputed to be vehemently opposed to the King's annulment, and if he was coming to the Queen...

She suddenly realised that this was just the sort of situation Thomas Cromwell had envisioned when he found her a place at court. More, Fisher, and the Queen were going to talk about the trial, and she was in a position to overhear them, and bring whatever information she heard to Thomas' people and thereby assist the King in his efforts, and reap the rewards thereof. This was her chance, her chance to prove her worth to Thomas, prove that his investment in her was a solid one... and prove that she was more valuable and far more useful to him than any Italian slut.

Quickly looking back down at her book, she stared intently at the print without seeing it as she listened intently to catch whatever would be said. "...brought Bishop Fisher to you. I believe he can offer you true and devoted counsel," Sir Thomas was saying, knelt at the Queen's feet.

The Queen smiled down at him warmly. "Thank you, Sir Thomas," she said graciously. She gestured for him to stand, then dismissed her attendants with another flick of her fingers—probably to forestall the very sort of thing Clara was even now planning.

Clara rose with the others, dropped a curtsey, and left the room with Sir Thomas More and the other ladies. As they left, she looked after More, hoping he would turn and they would have a moment to talk... but the lawyer just moved off through the corridors without a glance back. She heaved a bit of a sigh, but settled down onto a bench near the door and ostensibly went back to her book, using it as an excuse to ignore the people around her as she turned her ears to back towards the room she just left.

"...certain you wish to act for me?" she could hear the Queen saying, though her voice was muffled by the door. Had she been anyone else, Her Majesty's voice would have been inaudible unless her ear was pressed up against the keyhole itself. "You must be aware of the dangers and difficulties you may face. I would understand if you would prefer peace and tranquillity."

"Gentle Madam, what peace and tranquillity can there be without justice, and the love of God?" Fisher replied, voice courtly. "I have studied the case against you very carefully," he assured her, and Clara barely breathed, so intently was she listening.

"They will no doubt press the fact that the Pope's dispensation to allow you to marry the King was... technically faulty, and therefore invalid," Fisher went on to explain. "But the obvious way of resolving any such technical deficiency is not to declare the marriage null and void, but to issue fresh and more perfect dispensation."

Clara closed her eyes and repeated the words to herself, hoping to impress them into her memory so that she could repeat them to Ralph later.

"In any case," the Bishop finished, "the continuance of so long a space has rendered the marriage honest, and the principle of _sublet ecclesia_—or 'let the church provide'—has itself made good any defects in the Pope's dispensation."

"Then you suppose we may win?"Queen Katherine asked hopefully.

"We may win the argument, yes, but I cannot pretend that it will avail us much," Fisher admitted in resignation. But then his voice lifted and became encouraging; perhaps the Queen had displayed some measure of dismay on her face. "We shall still try. Be of good cheer, madam, for we are on the side of the angels."

The discussion then turned towards other matters, but that was the most important part. Clara did her best to remember all that she heard, to the point of nearly ignoring everyone else as she repeated Fisher's words over and over in her head. And the minute the Queen released her for the afternoon, she slipped away to her chambers and committed the conversation to paper. She wouldn't have a chance to see Ralph until tomorrow, so she wanted to ensure that nothing would be forgotten between now and then.

Once the conversation had been committed to paper and stowed safely away in the chest where she kept her Lutheran books, Clara sat down on her bed for a moment and sighed. She considered taking a nap; she hadn't been sleeping particularly well for the past few nights. And she steadfastly told herself that her disquiet over Thomas' latest letter and the spectre of Sabina de Risi had nothing to do with it.

However, her tiredness and general listlessness had not gone unnoticed, and Maud pulled her aside that evening at supper. "Clara, are you all right? Is there something wrong?" she asked quietly, putting a supportive hand on her arm.

Clara blinked up at her friend, her mind abruptly pulled out of her thoughts and back into the present. "What?" Then she processed what she'd just heard. "Oh yes, I'm fine. Truly, I'm just tired."

"Are you certain?" Maud pressed gently, fixing her pale blue eyes on Clara's dark ones. "There is nothing wrong with your son, or your brother?"

"No, nothing," she assured her friend, shaking her head.

Maud stared at her for a moment, clearly sceptical of taking her at her word. But then she just gave a nod. "All right. But Clara, you know you can come to me about anything, yes?" she asked softly. "I will be glad to listen, and I will keep your confidences, no matter the content."

Clara smiled, her heart warmed by Maud's earnest words, the sentiment behind them, and even by the fact that she would not demand anything more, no matter how much she might wish to. "I know. Thank you," she murmured, squeezing the hand on her arm.

The next night, she eschewed supper with the court to return to Shoreditch and the Cromwell home in Austin Friars, as she did on every Tuesday night. While Alice and Joan were theoretically in charge of running the house in Thomas' absence, Clara was still overseeing their work and giving them lessons. However, most of the actual labour was being done by Ralph Sadler. Knowing she would see Cromwell's chief clerk that night, she made a point of bringing along her transcription of the Queen's conversation with Fisher... and before she could talk herself out of it, the most recent letter Thomas had sent her.

She made sure to listen carefully to anything that was said about Thomas, wanting to know if he'd said anything to his family about Sabina de Risi. But Alice and Joan knew nothing, Richard spoke mostly about Italian politics, and Ralph was taciturn as usual. Part of her relaxed, as usual, as she spent time with this family of whom she was so fond, but another part of her was still worried and unhappy. What if Thomas scorned her for that Italian woman? Would she still be allowed here, in the bosom of the family? Or would she have to cede her place to Sabina de Risi? It was galling to imagine Alice and Joan passing into the tutelage of a courtesan—what horrible morals would they learn from her? What kind of debased creatures would they become? Clara wanted to fight against any such influence with everything she had, but what right did she have to do so? She had no place here, in this house, save for that which Thomas allowed her. No matter how much she loved the house and everyone in it, she could still be cast out in a moment should Thomas declare it.

It was plain that everyone had noted her low spirits—she wasn't blind to the significant glances they were all exchanging when they thought she wasn't looking. But she utilised her newly-learned discretion and said little about the source of her disquiet. If Thomas' family were unaware of his... intaglio with an Italian courtesan, she would not be the one to enlighten them. It wasn't her place.

After the meal was over, she asked Richard to lead her to Ralph, since they had matters to discuss. Richard looked at her for a long moment, but then wordlessly led her down into the counting house where Ralph's gingery head was bent over a ledger. He was the only one there—apparently he kept late hours, much like his master.

"Ralph, Lady Tyrell needs to see you," Richard announced, his voice breaking the silence of the rooms.

Ralph stood, then, and offered her a bow. "Of course, Lady Tyrell," he said, gesturing to a chair.

Richard gave her an encouraging smile and laid his broad hand on her shoulder for a moment in wordless comfort before he departed, leaving Ralph and Clara to their talk. And for once, Clara did not fret about being left alone and unchaperoned with a man unrelated to her. She had no worries that any gossip would escape the walls of this house.

She moved to the chair Ralph offered her and sank gracefully into it before reaching into her sleeve and removing the folded transcription of the Queen's conversation. "I overheard this conversation between Her Majesty and the Bishop of Rochester yesterday," she said softly, passing the parchment across the desk to Ralph.

Ralph took the folded parchment and opened it, tilting it to get the most of the candlelight as his sloe eyes flicked quickly over the writing thereon. "Mmm," he murmured thoughtfully. "Thank you, Lady Tyrell. This will be very useful information." His pale gaze rose and fixed on her, and his lips curled faintly upwards. "I will make sure Master Cromwell knows of your contribution; I have no doubt he will be prodigiously proud of you when he returns to England. Which will be within the next few weeks, I have no doubt." Something must have flickered on Clara's face, since his scrutiny sharpened. "What is it?" he asked.

Perhaps it was because Ralph was already entirely aware of the matter, or perhaps because Clara was overtired and overwrought by the concealment, or perhaps she just was longing to confide in someone; whatever the reason, "He won't be bringing her back with him, will he?" had burst past her lips before she had even decided to speak.

"Her?" Ralph repeated, sounding mildly confused.

"That Italian... woman, Sabina de Risi," Clara muttered, clenching her teeth around more descriptive terms. "His last letter to me was full of her. Does he mean to bring her back with him?"

Cromwell's chief clerk looked utterly perplexed. Had Thomas not confided in him? "The Camerlengo's courtesan?" he asked, to clarify. At Clara's nod, Ralph squinted at her. "Why would he bring her back with him?"

He sounded as if the idea was ludicrous, as if he had never considered it and she was insane for doing so. Clara felt her cheeks flush. "Well, the way he talks about her... she's beautiful and clever and witty and... and he likes her company, and..." She trailed off into silence when Ralph raised an eyebrow at her, obviously unconvinced. "Oh, read it if you like," she grumbled, pulling her letter out of her other sleeve and tossing it onto the desk, cheeks crimson.

Ralph perused her letter quickly, a faint grin curving his lips as he finished. Clara didn't see what was funny about being replaced by a Roman whore... unless Ralph thought she was no better? He had walked in on her and Thomas in extremely flagrante delicto, after all.

Once he'd finished, Ralph folded the letter back up and looked at her, face impassive. "I don't think you have anything to worry about, Lady Tyrell," he said, handing her letter back.

Clara considered that for a moment. "I suppose I needn't fear that woman abandoning Rome for England," she allowed grudgingly, imagining that Sabina de Risi would likely prefer to remain in Italy with her powerful patrons rather than come to England for a mere secretary, "but I... I have still been replaced in his affections." Admitting the last was painful, and she had to swallow around a lump in her throat and breathe deeply to stave off tears.

"I hardly think so," Ralph dismissed, before his voice grew gentle. "Lady Tyrell... Clara, I have known him for many years, and though you are close friends, I believe I know him better. And he is not the sort of man to take up with a courtesan, no matter how beautiful."

"Why not? I hear his wife was beautiful," Clara said gloomily. "More beautiful than me."

"Yes, Elizabeth Wyckes was beautiful," Ralph acknowledged frankly but neutrally; he might as well have been stating that Thomas' first wife had blonde hair or green eyes. "But that isn't why Master Cromwell married her, nor why he loved her." Clara tilted her head in a wordless inquiry, entreating him to go on, but Ralph shook his head. "You should ask him about this; it's not my place to tell you."

"He doesn't speak of her," Clara said in a small voice. "He's barely even mentioned her. I've heard more about her from Gregory and Alice than from him."

Ralph's pale eyes didn't move from her face, and Clara fought the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. "Why should you need to know about the late Mistress Cromwell?" he challenged mildly. "She is dead, after all, and can have no influence on your life."

Clara bit savagely on her lower lip and looked away. She had no idea what to say to that—it was true, and yet it wasn't true at all. How could she not be interested in her predecessor in Thomas' affections? Unless she was not—perhaps Thomas cared little for her, and Sabina de Risi was the successor to Elizabeth Cromwell. But Ralph said that was untrue.

Oh, what a muddle it was! She hardly knew what was truly going on.

Her conflict and confusion must have shown on her face—unsurprising, as she was hardly in a state to conceal it—since Ralph sighed a little, drawing her attention back to him. "Lady Tyrell, if you love him, just say so," he said quietly.

"But I don't know!" she burst out. "He is more than any mere friend, but I... it's just... and I might... I cannot marry him."

"That isn't what I said," Ralph pointed out gently, leaning forward to place his elbows on his desk and rest his chin on his folded hands, staring at her steadily as he did. "Lady Tyrell... Clara, do you love him?"

"Master Sadler!" Clara protested. "That is very forward."

Ralph just arched a gingery eyebrow.

She blushed a little, acknowledging that there was little about this conversation that wasn't forward. Then she sighed, and tucked her knees up under her chin, resting her heels on the edge of her chair and wrapping her arms around her legs. Ralph had seen her spread out on a carpet with his master's hands up her skirts; seeing her curled up like a little girl would not shock him.

Did she love Thomas Cromwell? She enjoyed his company—she liked talking to him, listening to him, looking at him, and even sitting in silence with him. She enjoyed his sense of humour, his informed mind, and his wide grin that made his eyes crinkle and shine. She respected him—his mind, his ideas, his beliefs, even his ambitions and his drive to improve his position in society. She liked that he had such faith in her, and her abilities. She liked the effect he had on her, disconcerting though it might be—the way he made her heartbeat stutter and her breathing quicken, the way his glances and gazes were almost a tangible presence on her skin, the way his smiles made it feel as though there was a glow shining out from the very centre of her being. She liked the woman she was when she was with him—he made her feel as though she was stronger, and braver, and more than she was at any other time.

And Thomas knew her—knew nearly every part of her, from her hypersensitive ears to her soundless way of walking, from her heretical faith to her occasional dabbling in less-than-moral actions—and liked it. Liked her. And though she knew much less about him (he was so closed-mouthed about himself!), she believed she knew the essentials, and she liked what she knew of him, too.

So in the end, it was plain: of course she loved him. She had loved him for a long time, for far longer than she really wanted to admit, even—or perhaps especially—to herself. For to admit that she loved him was to acknowledge that she had entered into a liaison with no hope of a future... and to admit to herself that she worried about her own moral fortitude. She could not marry him, but how long could she stand to love him and be in his company without straying, without compromising her own principles or breaking her own heart?

But that was not what Ralph had asked, not what he was waiting patiently to hear from her. All he wanted to know was whether or not she loved him.

_Do you love him_?

"Yes," she whispered.

"Would you marry him, if you could?" Ralph asked, eyes still fixed on her face.

That made her hide her head behind her arms. "Who says he'd even want to marry me," she mumbled into her silk sleeves. "He threw me over for some Italian slut—who says he's even interested in marrying me?"

"Clara," Ralph sighed, impatient with her pedantry.

She echoed his sigh. Well, why not... it wasn't as though every single husband she tried to imagine for herself didn't turn into Thomas Cromwell anyway. "If it was possible to marry him—if marrying him wouldn't bring my father's wrath down upon me and incite Spencer to take my son away... if he asked me, I would marry him," Clara admitted.

Ralph's stern countenance broke, then, and a faint smile spread across his face. "Good," he said, sounding earnestly pleased. "I hope you will remember it upon Master Cromwell's return."

"But I can't!" she protested desperately, unfurling from the tight ball she'd wrapped herself in. "If I marry him, they'll take Arthur away from me! And though I confess I love Thomas very well, I love my son more. I will do nothing that will jeopardize the rights for which I fought so fiercely."

"Don't think so narrowly," Ralph chided, sitting back in his chair and striking a much more casual pose. "There are always ways around even the most persistent obstacles, and Master Cromwell is very skilled at finding them—or, if they are not to be found, contriving them instead. Trust in him, Lady Clara. And don't keep restricting yourself to what you think you can have. Think, instead, on what it is you want, and ways by which you can get it."

That made her smile a little—just a faint uplift at the corner of her lips, but still a smile. "You sound like Thomas."

Ralph grinned. "Well, I have spent more than a decade in his household."

"What would you do, then, if he brought that woman back from Italy?" she wondered, her mouth speaking the words before her brain could stop her. Even as the words passed her lips, she knew that was not a question she was supposed to be asking, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment.

Ralph, though, just gave her a knowing smile and replied, "He wouldn't." At her uncertain look, he added, "He might enjoy her company, and use her as the means to incite jealousy in someone else, but that manner of woman is not the kind to bring home to one's family. And even if she weren't a courtesan, she is not the sort of woman Master Cromwell would like. Having known both Mistress Cromwell and you, I can say that with reasonable certainty," he assured her dryly.

"How so?" Clara wondered curiously, feeling a thrill of excitement that the conversation had wandered back to Thomas' late wife.

"You're both very direct. Direct, and strong," Ralph replied, eyes gone misty. Remembering the dead Elizabeth, perhaps?

"Gregory said she ran the household like a benevolent queen, but that all the merchants were afraid of crossing her," Clara said with a lopsided smile.

"Oh, they were. God's blood, I was afraid of crossing her," Ralph chuckled. "She was kind and loving, was Mistress Liz, always ready with a smile or word for one who needed it. I still remember the way she'd sweep little Grace up into her arms and tickle her—you could hear them laughing all the way down in the counting house. And even if you snuck into the kitchen for a snack and Mistress Liz had to chase you out with a wooden spoon, she'd still slip you a sweetmeat on your way out. She was the heart of the house," he added wistfully, obviously missing her. Clara tried not feel jealous or inferior (and for the most part succeeded), but couldn't quite help being somewhat intimidated by this dead woman. "But she was also stern," Ralph went on, "and Jesus preserve you if you vexed her. Her glares could freeze the nose off a stone gargoyle, and if she had cause to box your ears... well!" He shook his head and rubbed his ear, as if remembering a blow he'd suffered once before, looking like nothing so much as a young boy.

And Clara suddenly noticed, as though for the first time, how young Ralph Sadler actually was. Oh, she'd always been aware that he had a youthful appearance, but it wasn't something that really ever registered. She'd regarded him for the most part as her superior, as a man of lesser birth but far greater experience, and somehow the idea that he was also of greater age had gotten stuck into her mind as well. But now she realised that he was more of a peer than a superior, a young man of roughly the same age who cared for the man she loved and mourned those he had lost to death the same as she had. And perhaps a potential friend, as well?

So she relaxed, a little, and sat forward to rest her elbow on the desk. "She sounds... well, a little terrifying," Clara admitted, "but also a good mother, and a good friend. Actually," she realised, "she reminds me a bit of my late friend Sarah." Or Sarah as she could've been, she supposed, had she been given more time to grow into her confidence and not died of the Sweating Sickness at the age of 26.

Ralph's pale eyes were back on her, measuring and assessing, but this time Clara did not have nearly as much desire to squirm. Instead, she met his gaze squarely, and waited for him to share whatever thought he was mulling over. That made him smile. "For what it's worth, I think she would've approved of you," he commented, and despite her entreaties (both spoken and silent) would say no more. Instead, he thanked her again for bringing him the information, walked her to the door, and assured her that Master Cromwell would be returning to England within the month—sans courtesan.

"But what if he does not?" Clara couldn't help but ask, remembering all too well that the letter tucked back into her sleeve was full to brimming of praise for the beautiful, urbane, charming Sabina de Risi.

Ralph rolled his eyes at her; it seemed he, too, was aware of the shift in their relationship, for he would not have treated her so informally an hour ago. "Then I would put my money on you," he replied dryly. "I have little doubt you could send any Roman whore crying back to Italy. Especially after Master Cromwell taught you how to punch."

Clara couldn't quite picture that—herself, brawling with an Italian courtesan like a common slut. Then again, she hadn't been able to picture herself dressing up like a man and accidentally inciting a brawl in Charing, either, and she'd done that sure enough. And the idea of planting her fist in the face of that blonde harlot was a pleasing one.

She looked up to see Ralph smirking at her, as if he could tell where her thoughts had wandered. Clara just shook her head at him and said, "Never tell Thomas that this conversation took place." It would be far too humiliating for Thomas to know that she had seriously considered punching a woman who might have a better claim on him than she.

The smirk grew wider. "No promises, Lady Clara."

"You are all horrible, pernicious influences," Clara complained, though she couldn't keep the smile off her face. She had never been like this before coming back to London... but she couldn't quite bring herself to care, either.

"Perhaps, but you like it," Ralph pointed out, smirk morphing into a grin.

Clara couldn't deny it, so she just wrinkled her nose at him and began to make her trek back to Whitehall.

Once she was settled back into her chambers and dressed for bed, she sat down at the table and mulled over the evening, waiting for the faint sense of panic to creep up from her chest. But it didn't come. It seemed, now that she'd acknowledged what she'd known, deep down, all along—namely, that she was probably in love with Thomas Cromwell, that her feelings weren't going to change any time soon, and that it was too late to extract herself from this relationship because she was already far too invested—she had ceased to panic about what would happen next. Clara didn't have the same bombastic confidence as Ralph and Thomas himself, that every obstacle could eventually be overcome, but she knew that things were as they were, and had to be dealt with as such. She loved Thomas, and would have to deal with that... even if he didn't love her in return, or threw her over for someone else, or flaunted a courtesan in her face. Whether anything came of her feelings or not, there was no turning back. A solution would have to be devised, because her heart was very much engaged.

She knelt down beside her bed to fetch her English bible out from her walnut chest in preparation for her evening prayers. As she set it on the bed, it fell open, and her eyes fell on a particular verse in 1 Corinthians. "Love suffreth longe and is corteous. Love envieth not. Love doth not frowardly swelleth not dealeth not dishonestly seketh not her awne is not provoked to anger thynketh not evyll reioyseth not in iniquite: but reioyseth in ye trueth suffreth all thynge beleveth all thynges hopeth all thynges endureth in all thynges. Though that prophesyinge fayle other tonges shall cease or knowledge vanysshe awaye yet love falleth never awaye."

There was a lesson there, Clara realised. A lesson... and perhaps a message. Perhaps this was the Lord's oblique way of telling her to trust in love—both her own for other people, and in God's for her. After, "Now abideth fayth hope and love even these thre: but the chefe of these is love." She had love—for God, for her son, her family, her friends, her country, her king and queen, and for her... well, for her Thomas. Perhaps she should just focus on the feeling, and trust that sooner or later, a solution would contrive, present, or otherwise reveal itself.

At least she had an answer for Thomas, when he returned. That was something. And once they were again in company, they could think of a solution together. Clara felt herself smile at that word—_together_, and amended her previous thoughts. She would focus on the feeling, and trust that if she and Thomas' hearts were in accord, they would be able to come up with a workable plan together.

Feeling more at peace with the contents of her mind and heart than she had for quite a few weeks, Clara finished her prayers, hid her English bible back in her locked chest, and retired to bed.

And as she slipped down into dreams, she let the image of her future husband take the shape of Thomas Cromwell from the start.

* * *

**A/N part deux:** Holy crap, how did this chapter get so long? I have seriously no idea. At least it makes up for the length between updates? At least a little?

Anyway, next chapter will hopefully be slightly less long (I've already chopped the outline in half), but lots of stuff is going to happen anyway. I won't tell you what, though!

Please review and let me know what you thought! It helps! Especially since I'm not best satisfied with this chapter. That's the problem, I guess, with having to write it piecemeal: it comes out feeling kind of piecemeal too. Bleah.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** Here is another chapter. We saw lots of Clara this time around, so now let's flip and see some Cromwell!

This one took a little longer than expected, given that it's a bit shorter than the chapters of late, due to the fact that I got a kitten! He's a little orange tabby named Gimli, and his favourite places to sit are on my chest and on the keyboard of the laptop. It's really hard to get any writing done when you've got a kitten prancing across the computer every ten minutes. But I soon trained that out of him (well, mostly), and was able to get some writing done. Hurrah.

* * *

**Chapter 14:**

_5 May, 1529_

Thomas Cromwell barely had a moment to spare once his feet hit English soil once more.

His boat no sooner landed at Dover than he was mounting a horse and riding for London as fast as his steed would run. And no sooner had he arrived back in London than he was shedding his travel-stained garments and preparing to present himself at Whitehall. He barely had time to greet his family and shove his papers and receipts at Ralph for filing before he was off to the palace. All in all, it only took him about eight hours from the time he landed back on English shores to find himself ushered into the King's presence.

Thankfully, he had caught His Majesty at a convenient time, when he was in his closet with Anne Boleyn and of a mind to hear of his secretary's errand; had the King been off hunting or carousing with the Duke of Suffolk or some of his other companions, Cromwell knew he would've been required to wait until his master was in a more receptive frame of mind. But Henry VIII was eager enough to hear what news his secretary brought from Rome, and had him shown into the Royal Closet the moment his presence was announced.

"Master Cromwell," the King greeted, gesturing for his servant to rise before Cromwell had even reached the nadir of his bow. Henry looked much as he always did, and was clad simply but grandly in deep blue silk with a golden chain studded with pale jewels around his neck. Lady Anne sat at his right, as always, with a lute in her damask-covered lap, and she smiled warmly at him as he straightened. "We are pleased to see you back at home. What news from Rome?"

"Little to give Your Majesty much joy," Cromwell admitted, keeping his voice level and confident despite the somewhat dour tidings he bore. "The Pope continues to vacillate on the matter; he promises to pray for the souls of all involved, and hopes it will be resolved to everyone's satisfaction, but implied that he would do little else. Though there are several members of the Curia who are sympathetic to your cause and desirous of your friendship, Your Majesty may have to wait for the ruling of the legatine court, for I fear the Pope will do little else to aid you."

A black scowl immediately crossed the King's face, though thankfully it seemed directed more towards the Pope than the messenger. "Did His Holiness give any hint as to when we might expect such a ruling?" Henry inquired, sounding as though he was grinding his teeth.

"No, your Majesty," Cromwell replied quietly. "I believe that is still contingent on Cardinal Campeggio's health."

"How much longer can he expect to stall?" Lady Anne wondered incredulously. "It's near insulting, how Campeggio—and his master—make the King of England wait upon him like an errant schoolboy!" She gave a haughty toss of her head, which incidentally allowed her to meet Cromwell's eyes for a brief moment. Her pale eyes were gleaming like polished stones, and her cunning shone bright.

Cromwell knew what she was doing, and fully approved of the tack she was taking with the king. His Majesty kept threatening to break with Rome, and Anne (and Cromwell himself, for that matter) were doing all they could to subtly encourage the King to make good on his threats. The secretary therefore nodded in implicit agreement with Anne's assessment, then added mildly, but with a faint undertone of disapproval, "I believe His Holiness and Cardinal Campeggio are hoping Your Majesty will grow weary or impatient and cry off if they delay long enough."

The King gave a scornful huff of breath, and reached for Anne's hand. "Then they will be disappointed," he said vehemently, blue eyes burning. "I will not be swayed from my course—not for my kingdom, and all the riches in Christendom!" He punctuated this declaration with a fervent kiss to Anne's palm.

Lady Anne's expression became at once softer and more heated, and Cromwell was aware of the sudden tension that had sprung up between the King and his lady. He half-hoped the king would dismiss him before he had to witness any shows of particular affection. And sure enough, Henry barely glanced his way as he said, warmly but absently, "Thank you, Master Cromwell, for your diligence in this matter."

Cromwell bowed, and backed out of the room before he had to see anything more than his Majesty pressing a kiss to the inside of Lady Anne's wrist. Thus dismissed by his master, her turned his footsteps back towards the docks, and thence to Hampton Court, where Cardinal Wolsey still dwelled. In bygone years, Cromwell would've gone first to Wolsey, no matter what, but he was now in the King's service, and it was his duty to report first to His Majesty, despite how distractedly his report was received.

It was getting full late by the time his boat docked at Hampton Court; despite the hour, however, Cromwell was immediately shown into Wolsey's study. "Your Eminence," he said, bowing at the waist.

Before he'd even straightened fully up, the prelate himself had stood from behind his great desk to greet him. "Ah, Thomas, how good to see you back in England," Wolsey greeted, coming around to clap him on the shoulder before leading him over to a chair by the fire. "How was your journey? You made good time, I hear?"

"Good enough, Your Eminence," Cromwell replied, setting into the offered chair. "The roads in Italy were terrible, and the Low Countries were a stew of mud on my return, but the weather was generally good."

"What news from the Vatican?" Wolsey inquired, sitting forward and resting his elbows on his scarlet-draped knees.

"Little to give either Your Eminence or His Majesty any pleasure," Cromwell said, repeating the answer he'd given the king earlier, but with a tone of sympathy and understanding instead of the faint hint of apology and anger he'd adopted in the presence of the King. "I had to pay exorbitant sums merely to be allowed access to His Holiness, and the audience lasted barely five minutes. The Pope made it clear that he would pray for His Majesty, but do little else, and that the final judgment on the matter rests with Campeggio and the legatine court."

Wolsey heaved a distressed sigh, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. "I was rather afraid of that," the Cardinal grumbled. "Clement is an old procrastinator. Well, I suppose I'll have to ensure Lorenzo knows what's at stake. What of the rest of the Curia?"

"There are plenty of impoverished Cardinals eager for the King of England's friendship, and still more who would be happy enough to spit in the Emperor's eye in addition," Cromwell replied, knowing that Wolsey had even fewer illusions about Rome than the King did. "But whether or not that will be enough..." He trailed off into silence.

The darkening of Wolsey's expression indicated clearly enough that he had followed Cromwell's train of thought. But nevertheless, he wished to know, "What are their names?"

"The highest ranking Cardinal I was able to cultivate was Agostino Spinola, the Camerlengo," Cromwell replied, remembering with a faint tilt of his lips the manner in which he had done so. Fair Sabina de Risi had been sorry to see him go—earnestly, he thought, since he amused her. He gave Wolsey a list of a few more amenable Cardinals, mainly Frenchmen and those Italians who had suffered particularly when the Emperor sacked Rome.

Wolsey nodded sagely as the list went on. "I know some of these men," he said, sounding relieved. "I have hope that they will be loyal friends if we need to sway the Pope one way or another. At the very least, we may convince him to write to Campeggio and order him to convene the court before we all get old."

Cromwell nodded in acquiescence, and shortly thereafter bid the Cardinal farewell and was back on a boat back to Shoreditch. The sun had already set, and he'd been on the road since dawn. Though he was used to working long hours on little sleep, even he had his limits, and right now he wanted little more than his bed. Hopefully Ralph would've gotten everything filed correctly, and he could just stagger into his house and sleep.

Speaking of Ralph, his chief clerk was still up when Cromwell arrived back at the house at Austin Friars. "Master, good to see you back," the redhead said mildly, rising from his chair when he saw Cromwell enter the house. "How was your news received?"

"Well enough," Cromwell replied, trying not to yawn.

Ralph seemed to realise he was exhausted, and just fell into step with him on the way into the house. "I've already filed everything, and the house has been running fine in your absence," he listed as they climbed the stairs. "I'm sure we can have a more descriptive conversation tomorrow, Master, when you look less likely to fall over."

"I've been on the road for the past two weeks," Cromwell riposted dryly, covering a yawn with his hand. "And I have scarce stopped moving since I landed at Dover this morning."

"I'm sure Mistresses Alice and Joan will have a good breakfast for you tomorrow. And a good supper, as Lady Tyrell will be joining us," Ralph added innocently. "I'm certain she will be very cheered to see you've returned to London—and alone. She was convinced you'd be bringing back an Italian courtesan, and stood half-ready to claw out her eyes."

Cromwell didn't bother to suppress his smirk. Apparently his strategy there had borne fruit, if his carefully crafted letter had sent Clara into a jealous tizzy. "Well, I wanted to make sure she was thinking of me," he quipped with a laugh.

"I think you need have little worry on that account," Ralph drawled, shaking his head in amusement. "But that was perhaps a good idea—Lady Tyrell is very popular among the younger sons at court."

"I had a feeling she would be," Cromwell replied evenly, not rising to the bait even though it made his gut churn. Clara was a rich, comely young widow; of course she was going to be popular among the penniless contingent. He'd known the minute he'd thought to place her there that she'd doubtless be a fine catch for the young men hanging out for a wealthy wife. "Though hopefully my unaccompanied return will do something to put her fears to rest."

"I'm sure she'll be very relieved that she will not have to punch any Roman harlots. Master," Ralph said, utterly deadpan.

Ralph's tone and the mental picture were so diverting that Cromwell was laughing around his yawns as he retired, at long last, to bed.

* * *

_6 May, 1529_

Cromwell woke at his usual hour, and made enough time to break his fast with his family. Alice and Joan practically jumped on him the moment he stepped downstairs, and even Richard was enthusiastic about his return, though of course it was conveyed in a suitably manly sort of embrace. It was marvellous to see them all again... but he was still at Whitehall by nine o'clock, sifting through the three months of missed work. Ralph, Audley, and the others had done an exemplary job in his absence, but he still wanted to catch up personally on all the things he'd been absent for. And of course there was still the usual day's work. It was easy enough to slide back into old routines, and the hours slid by like water, punctuated only by the occasional visitor, stopping by to make inquiries or ask for favours or welcome him back to Whitehall (and occasionally, all three at once).

Immediately after dinner, he went forth to the King's Privy Closet with the documents that needed the regal signature. On his way there, he passed a coterie of women tarrying in an alcove off from the main gallery, clustered around a window. They were dressed in the black and silver attire indicating service in the Queen's household—save for one lady, who was clad mostly in black, likely indicating mourning. Mourning immediately brought Clara to mind, and therefore he looked a little closer at the women than was his usual wont. And it took him a mere moment to register that the face under the hood of the black-clad woman was the one he'd been longing to see for months.

He kept his eyes on her face, and saw the moment she turned to look at him. Had she heard his footsteps; could she pick them out from all the steps passing to and fro in the galleries? Was it that she felt his gaze heavy on her skin? Or was it just chance that turned her attention to his passage? At any rate, her dark eyes found his, and the delight that immediately lit in her face cheered him immensely. Cromwell broke his impassive countenance enough to send her the faintest of smiles before leaving the room, and hoped idly that no one had seen that little interaction. Especially since Clara's expression had been very, very telling.

The memory of that look carried him through the rest of the day, inspiring him to attend to his work with particular diligence, hoping to leave for home in time to sit down to supper with his family... and Clara. Cromwell hadn't forgotten the request he'd made of Lady Tyrell before he left her, in the wake of their... 'indiscretion' on the floor of his privy closet back in Shoreditch, that she know her desires upon his return. He certainly knew his own; hopefully, judging by her joy at seeing him once more, Clara was likewise clear on the matter.

It was a close thing, but Thomas did make it home before supper was served. Albeit not by much. But still, he was able to sit down with everyone. "My apologies for my near-tardiness," he said, taking his place at the head of the table. "There was much to catch up on." As he spoke, he let his gaze linger on Clara, seated across from Richard on the right side of the table. The lady lowered her head and blushed violently, but her lips were smiling and she kept stealing glances at him from under her lashes. The joy at the sight of him was still shining from her face, though clouded slightly with embarrassment and modesty.

"We understand, Uncle Thomas," Alice piped in. "We're glad you could make it, late or not."

"As I am," he replied, giving his niece a smile. "What did you occupy yourselves with during my absence?"

This inquiry brought forth a flood of information—Alice had been working on improving her mathematics, and had started embroidering a pair of gloves for Gregory; Joan had asked Lady Clara to teach her some Latin, and was occupied thusly in addition to her other lessons; Richard had been keeping an eye on the Cromwell interests in the market, as Ralph monitored those at court, and had been out a few times hawking; and they were all eager to speak of the news contained in Gregory's letters from Cambridge. Then they turned inquires back on him, wanting to know about his journey and his time in Rome and the fashions of the Italian ladies.

And through it all, Thomas kept an eye on Clara, watching her beam at the family gathered around her (well, when she wasn't favouring him with warm looks and sweet smiles). It was plain how much she had come to love all the people seated around the table, despite the fact that they were all below her, socially, and that she had not six months previously dismissed a deeper connection as ludicrous. Now, he could easily imagine Clara taking the seat at the foot of the table, helping him preside over their family as the lady of the house. It was a very appealing picture. And if the soft, dewy look in Clara's dark eyes as she regarded her dining companions was any judge, her thoughts were running along similar lines.

Once the last dishes had been cleared, Thomas sent for the gifts he'd brought his family from Italy. For Alice, there was a pearl necklace with a blue enamel pendant; for Joan, there was a pretty pearl-and-moonstone bracelet. There was much squealing and clapping of hands from the two girls upon the presentations of the presents. Richard and Gregory had new daggers, Richard's with a red cabochon on the hilt and Gregory's with a blue (though he would have to either wait to bestow the gift until Christmas, or post it up to Cambridge); Ralph had some new books that had been recently published. And though their gratitude was more restrained, it was no less heartfelt.

"And I have something for Lady Clara as well, but I seem to have forgotten it somewhere upstairs," Thomas added, as if anyone would believe that he'd forget any such thing. It was mostly a contrivance to get Clara alone, and going by the looks on everyone's faces, they all knew it, too. "Lady Clara?" he invited, standing from the table and extending his hand.

Clara looked up and met his eyes, a high flush on her cheekbones as she bit her lower lip uncertainly. However, there was no hesitation in her movements as she accepted his hand and stood, letting him lead her out of the hall and upstairs. She turned back once to glower at Ralph, who had apparently said something to Richard under his breath, proving that her ears were still as keen as ever.

Once they arrived upstairs in his privy closet, Thomas left the door open in a pointed assurance that nothing untoward would occur between them. He hadn't forgotten how skittish Clara had been after being caught by Ralph, how she'd fled from him and shied away from his touch. Though he certainly wouldn't mind another clinch like the one Ralph had interrupted, he didn't want to discomfit Clara or chase her off.

It would be much better if she came to him on her own.

Though he'd said that he had forgotten where he'd left Clara's gifts, Thomas knew exactly where they rested, though he made a show of checking this pouch and that chest. While he did so, he was very aware of Clara settling into her usual chair, and he could feel her eyes on him as he moved around. When he straightened up from the wooden box in which he'd stashed the things he'd brought for her and met her eyes with a quizzical loft of his eyebrow, Clara just held his gaze, unabashed—though her colour deepened along her cheeks.

He was smiling as he extended the first of the gifts he'd brought for her. "For you, since you are now at court," he said, enjoying the way her face lit up at the gift of a new book. "_Il Libro del_ _Cortegiano_, by Baldassarre Castiglione," he supplied as Clara opened the book and peered at the faceplate. "It was published in Venice last year, about the perfect courtier and his attributes. I thought it might be interesting to you, since you are now a courtier yourself."

Clara was smiling widely, though her brow furrowed a little as she registered the language her new book was written in. "Italian?" she inquired.

Thomas nodded, taking a seat in the chair beside her—the same chairs they had occupied the night in February when they had both drunk too much brandywine and behaved badly—and it was as if no time at all had passed between then and now, as they fell easily back into old patterns. "There are, as yet, no translations," he explained apologetically. "However, as you speak Latin, French, and a measure of Spanish, I imagined Italian would hardly be a stretch for your intellect." The compliment to her mind made her flush deeply with pleasure, but he pretended he hadn't noticed and added off-hand, "I am of course at your disposal should you encounter any difficulties."

"Thank you," Clara said fervently, looking up from her new book to meet his eyes. "For the book, I mean. And your offer of assistance, which will doubtlessly be needed. Thank you," she said again, dropped her gaze and blushing like a coy maiden.

"You're quite welcome," Thomas replied quietly. He paused for a moment, running a thumb over the small crystal bottle in his hand, before reaching out to hand it to her. "I brought this for you as well. I... caught whiff of it in Rome, and it reminded me of you."

He tried to sound unconcerned and casual, but he could still remember the day he'd purchased this for her, when walking through the streets of Rome he'd caught the scent of roses and ambergris—nearly the same scent that Clara always wore. It had stopped him nearly dead in the street, sending his mind flying back to England, to the moment he'd had Clara spread out beneath him with his face buried in her neck, breathing in the smell of her as she wound around him like a rose on a trellis. The memory had been so intense, he'd nearly staggered right in the middle of a Roman street. Once he was master of himself again, he'd followed his nose to a perfumery, sifting through various perfumes until he found one he thought Clara would like, still based essentially on her favoured scent, but different enough to be interesting and exotic.

Clara uncapped the bottle and wafted it under her nose, closing her eyes and breathing in. A pleased smile curved her lips, and she immediately moved to dab some of the perfume on her wrists before carefully stoppering the bottle. "I smell roses and ambergris and... something else," she mused, holding her wrist up under her nose. "Another flower?"

"Jasmine," Thomas supplied. "It is a flower more common to the warmer regions of the world—England is too cold for it, though it grows in Italy."

"It is a beautiful scent," Clara sighed, before taking another deep inhalation. "Thank you, Thomas. These are marvellous gifts—truly, thank you," she said earnestly, looking over at him and smiling.

"I'm glad they give you such pleasure," he replied, answering her smile with his own. He took a deep breath in through his nose, smelling the womanly fragrance perfuming his closet and mingling with the scent of ink and parchment and woodsmoke. The room had not been graced with such an aroma regularly since Liz's death (and Liz had favoured musk and lavender as her perfume of choice).

"Here," Clara said softly, twisting a little in her seat and extending her wrist to him. "How does it suit?" she asked, meeting his gaze with her own. There was a measure of trepidation in her face, which was openly honest as usual, but also resolve.

Slowly, carefully, as though if he moved too quickly she would startle and flee, Thomas reached out and wrapped his fingers around the proffered arm, bringing it closer to his face. He bent to inhale, the tip of his nose barely brushing against the perfumed skin, whilst he let his thumb move in a slow, circular caress along the inside of Clara's delicate wrist. Her scent in his lungs, her flesh under his hands... it was a heady feeling, to have his senses so full of Clara after so long an absence.

"Tantalising," he murmured, his voice low and husky, opening his eyes to meet the gaze of the woman beside him. She was looking at him with eyes so dark they were nearly black, her lower lip between her teeth, her thin chest heaving with her quick, shallow breaths. "It suits you well."

Clara shifted her arm in his grasp—not pulling away, just shifting—and reached out to cradle his face in her hand, letting her own thumb caress his cheek and the corner of his lips in an echo of his own movement. The feel of her delicate hand against his skin sent sizzles of desire through his body, and he had to take a deep breath and restrain himself before he tightened his grip on her arm and used it to pull her into his lap, thereby picking up where they left off the last time they were alone in this room together.

Instead, he took a deep breath (once again filling his nose with the heady scent of roses and jasmine) and broke the heavy silence that had descended between them. "Clara," he began lowly, "before I left for Rome, I asked something of you."

Her hand stilled, and her gaze dropped. "Yes, you did," she murmured, so quiet as to nearly be inaudible. She made to pull away, but Thomas slid his hand up from her wrist to press her hand to his cheek, keeping her in place. "Are you certain you are interested in my answer? You seemed to prefer the company of another, when last I heard from you."

Presumably she was referring to Sabina de Risi; obviously, his little scheme to make her jealous had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Perhaps even a little too well, if he had made her so insecure. She couldn't possibly have thought that he'd abandon her for a courtesan he'd known for less than two months? "Of course I want your answer," he replied.

Clara said nothing, but kept her eyes downcast, and her hand was limp in his grasp. Thomas narrowed his eyes and stared hard at her. He had thought she was receptive to him—more than receptive... until he brought up a potential rival. Then she wilted. And while he was uncomfortable with the idea of revealing too much of his heart and the contents thereof, and would rather go back to fencing with Cardinals in the Curia than speak of his feelings, it seemed he would have to say something to incite Clara to do the same.

So he cleared his throat, a little awkwardly, and said gruffly, "I missed you, while I was away. I missed our talks."

That brought a bit more spark back into her, and he could see her lips twitching up into a faint smile. "I missed you too," she whispered, and her thumb moved to skim across his cheek.

Her dark eyes flickered up to his, then down, then back up. Clara bit at her lower lip again, before taking a deep breath, visibly gathering her courage before standing. She didn't pull herself from his hold, but only moved to stand in front of him before she placed her other hand on his face, cupping his jaw in her hands. They stood there for a long moment, just looking at one another.

Then Clara bent down, and placed a soft, chaste kiss on his lips.

Thomas drew in a sharp breath of shock through his nose, but then immediately relaxed into the contact once he'd got past his shock. He closed his eyes and kissed back, tilting his head up for a better angle—but slowly, gently, letting Clara have control, letting her have what she wanted from him now that she had enough boldness to take it. They shared a bare handful of closed-mouth kisses before she drew back, though she continued to cradle his face in her hands and rested her forehead against his.

"You always surprise me, Clara," Thomas murmured softly after a moment.

He could feel her shoulders quiver with her silent mirth, and she tilted her head to bump the tip of her nose against his. "I cannot know what will come of this," she whispered against his lips. "But you asked me to know what I wanted from you upon your return. And the truth is... whatever it is I can have with you, I want."

A brilliant flare of triumph ran through his veins like lightning, and Thomas let his face crease into a wide smile, standing up and using his hands to frame Clara's face in turn as her own moved down to rest on his shoulders. She'd chosen him. Out of all the men in England, of all the young pups at court who sought her favour and courted her affections, Clara Tyrell, that scion of old blood, had chosen Thomas Cromwell, a low-born lawyer from Putney. Perhaps not with whole-hearted enthusiasm, but he had a feeling that was due more to uncertainty than desire. _There is the difference between us, dear Clara_, Thomas thought to himself. _You want whatever you can have. Whereas I want everything, and will do anything I can to get it._

"I am very glad to hear it," he finally replied, smiling down into her brown eyes and gently stroking her cheekbones with his thumbs. "For I too know what I want from you," he went on, tilting his head as though to kiss her again. He did not, however; he stopped just short, and whispered, close enough that their lips almost brushed, "Everything."

Thomas could feel her shaking breaths against his face, feel her trembling underneath his hands—and feel the curve of her smile as she arched her neck and took the kiss he was teasing her with. "You are very bold, Thomas Cromwell," Clara whispered against his mouth, once the kiss was over.

"You kissed me, Clara Tyrell," he reminded her, sliding one of his hands away from her face and down to her neck, his grip on which he used to tug her back in for another soft, lazy kiss.

They remained in their languid embrace, hands remaining pointedly above the level of their collarbones, until Clara apparently heard something in another part of the house which caused her to pull away from his loose hold with a startle and a soundless gasp, sending a nervous look towards the open door. Whatever noise reached her ears was not alarming, since she relaxed shortly thereafter. However, she did not return to his embrace—which was, Thomas allowed, perhaps wise.

Instead, Clara gripped her elbows and looked down. "I... I did say that I would honour my late husband with a year of mourning," she began haltingly. "I... he died on the 19th of June, I'm told—I was too sick at the time to mark it myself... I... could we wait, until then?" she asked meekly. "I don't mean to lead you on, I promise, but I... I did love Robin truly and faithfully, and I owe him a year," she repeated.

Was she truly so fretful over such a small thing? Did she think that a mere month's wait would be enough to sap him of his resolve, or quell his feelings for her? He'd wanted her for months, now, after having been celibate for nearly two years; a few more weeks of waiting was nothing. Smiling, Thomas stepped forward to put his hands on her shoulders and pressed a firm kiss to her forehead. "Of course I will wait," he assured her quietly. "Clara, I promise I will not press you on this matter. If you wish to wait, we will wait."

Though she made no sound, he could feel her sigh and relax under his hands. "Thank you," she murmured softly. "I don't... I don't know what will come of this... of us," she stumbled on. "I—we—know what we want, but... well, I... don't know how we'll go about getting it. I trust in God, and of course I trust you, but—"

She was cut off when Thomas nipped in and kissed her swiftly, drinking the words off her lips. Every time she said she trusted him or did something to prove it, he wanted to kiss her; now he was allowed (well, after a fashion) and meant to take advantage of it. And he wondered, briefly, if her trust would ever cease engendering that reaction in him.

"Thomas..." Clara began to scold, once he leaned back. But there was a reluctant smile tugging at her lips.

"That was the last until June, I swear," he assured her with a grin. "Just to tide me over. " Then he sobered, and reached up to trace the lines of her face, which had become so dear. "Let me court you, Clara," he entreated lowly. "When your mourning is past, let me pay court to you—secretly," he added, addressing what he knew would be her first and strongest objection. "We'll sort everything out as we need to, but for now..."

"For now," Clara agreed, blushing. "Very well, Master Cromwell. When my time of mourning is past, you may pay court to me." She bit her lower lip again, looking mischievous instead of conflicted, and then leaned in and pecked him on the corner of his mouth before skimming across the carpet back to her chair. She settled herself down and arranged her skirts, sending him a coy, flirtatious look from under her lashes. "Have you some time at the moment, Thomas? I would like to begin reading my new book," she asked sweetly.

A crooked grin spread across his face. "Minx," he accused in a low tone, making Clara smirk, before he took his seat and bent his head to help her translate the Italian.

* * *

_17 May, 1529_

Shortly after Cromwell's return home, Cardinal Campeggio finally announced that the opening of the legatine trial on the King's marriage would take place on the 31st of May. Cromwell supposed at least something came from his otherwise-disappointing mission to Rome if the Pope was finally inspired to write to his legate and prod him into convening the court. The King's mood immediately lifted, and Cardinal Wolsey's relief was practically palpable.

Cromwell, meanwhile, became very busy. As the King's Secretary—and also as a trained lawyer—he had much to do to prepare for the opening of the trial. He barely had time to spend with his family, let alone with his friends... or Clara. Though the latter might be a blessing. There was still a month until her year of mourning was over, and at least his near-constant occupation ensured that the time passed quickly and that there would be less temptation.

(Although he might need to have a word with her. While Clara's court-face had improved in leaps and bounds since winter, she was still deplorably easy to read. And it was therefore plain to see that Lady Tyrell had some feelings for or dealings with Master Secretary, given the intent way her eyes followed him whenever they were in company together and the bright blush that bloomed across her cheeks.)

Still, he was still somewhat perturbed that she was unable to accompany him to a sermon this Sunday, as was their usual custom; she had been specifically requested to attend on Queen Katherine today, and could not demur. Thomas had always found her earnest faith and her genuine goodness to be entirely charming, and he enjoyed hearing her insights and interpretations of the sermon after, since they were often different than his own. He felt as though something crucial was lacking every time he had to pass a Sunday without her company.

Therefore, he was quite pleased when Clara sought him out on Monday, later in the evening.

Most of the court had already supped, and was gathered for dancing and merrymaking in the great hall, though Cromwell remained in his closet attending to business with a handful of clerks. His attention was drawn away by a low, quick knocking on the door, which when opened by one of his under-clerks revealed Lady Tyrell, dressed in a black silk gown as usual, but pairing it with a silvery-white kirtle and trimming the neckline and her hood with pearls instead of jet beads—both signs that she was slowly coming out of mourning. She smiled politely at the young man who opened the door for her, and then her dark eyes sought him out, and her smile turned hopeful and a little shy.

Cromwell waved the onlookers away, pinning the more curious of them with a stern glare, and moved to take Clara's arm, leading her over to the windows and secluding them as best he could behind the curtains. "Clara, how good to see you," he murmured. "How do you fare this evening?"

"I am quite fine. I have some information for you," Clara replied softly, her eyes still nervously flickering between himself and the other side of the room, where waited the clerks. He knew she was anxious about gossip, and he could somewhat understand her discomfiture. If she was seen coming to him, or if one of the clerks said the wrong thing to the wrong person... if somehow, word got back to Queen Katherine that Lady Tyrell was slinking in to speak surreptitiously with Master Secretary, Her Majesty would draw the correct conclusion about her attendant's loyalties, and that fount of information would likely dry up.

"Perhaps we should contrive a signal or a code of some sort in the future, so that I might know when it is you at the door," Cromwell commented, already thinking about a pattern of knocks or a hand signal of some sort that would let him know she needed to speak to him so that he could contrive a way to meet with her unseen.

"That would doubtlessly be wise," Clara agreed, before she inclined her head towards him and lowered her voice still further, so much so that he had to bend his head as well to hear her at all. "Especially given the things which I have to relate."

And as he did, he was overwhelmed by the fragrance of jasmine and roses, and felt a low thrill in his stomach. She was wearing his scent, marking herself with his claim to her, and it made a part of him want to pound his chest with triumph. Especially since the young bucks around court who'd been sniffing around had only gotten bolder since she had begun to slowly put away her mourning, and there were times he ground his teeth so hard at the sight of the young men hovering around his Clara that he went home in the evening with a pounding headache.

"Yesterday, the Queen met with Bishop Fisher," Clara murmured. "Her Majesty sent us out of her privy closet and into an antechamber, but I could still hear them through the door. They discussed the coming trial. Her Majesty wishes, under Fisher's advisement, to solemnly swear before Bishops and notaries that she never consummated the marriage with Prince Arthur. She also wishes to formally protest, likewise in the presence of notaries, the hearing of her case here, in England, and request that it be heard instead in Rome, by the Pope himself."

Cromwell's eyebrows lifted, and then he smiled. This was precisely the sort of the thing he'd hoped Clara would overhear when he'd thought to place her at court. He doubted anyone could prevent the Queen from carrying out her plans, but forewarned was forearmed. Especially if Clara could find out what method Katherine would use to send her protestation abroad, or which notaries she would swear before.

Clara went on, "Queen Katherine says she doesn't trust Campeggio—and certainly not Wolsey—to be impartial in the matter. Fisher says she also ought to make a protest before the court which formally denies its right to try her, and that the fact that she's protesting to them in no way recognises its authority to hear the case. Or... something. There was much lawyer's speak," she finished, wrinkling her nose a little.

"I am certain I can fill in the gaps," Cromwell said, already imagining the kind of legal parlance these things would be framed in. "Was there anything else? Anything about the brief which has been sent from Spain?"

Clara shook her head. "No. I believe Her Majesty has a copy that was sent from Spain, but the original will be remaining there," she replied.

"Mmm, unsurprising," Cromwell said absently. "I wouldn't part with it either." Ferdinand, Katherine's father, had been a canny old fox, and attempted to cover for every single eventuality in the dispensation—whether the marriage had, had not, or had only possibly been consummated. Much of the King's case was being built on the fact that there was a technical fault in the dispensation, and that could be proved or disproved by producing the original dispensation, which had been sent to Spain for Queen Isabella. Katherine had been sent a copy, the veracity of which upon many of the King's lawyers were casting doubt, but in all likelihood no one in England would ever lay eyes on the original. There was too much danger of something happening to it.

Of course, without it, little could be definitely said either way, and Cromwell was enough of a lawyer to realise it could drag on for years if they were continuing to come at the matter from the dispensation angle. He thought it was much better—and much better for England—for the King to attack the source, which was to challenge the right of the Pope to dispense the matter at all. And Henry was moving slowly in that direction, but had not yet given up hope of gaining his desires through established channels.

In the end, Cromwell supposed it would come down to Campeggio and the legatine hearing. Everything would hang on that decision.

"Thank you for bringing this to me, Clara," Cromwell said distractedly. He smiled at her and clapped a hand to her shoulder before waving her away with an absentminded gesture. His mind was already occupied in planning his next move. He'd have to pass this information on to Wolsey, who as one of the judges would want to know that his authority was being undermined by the Queen. Should he tell the King? No, no... that wasn't his place—not yet. He'd tell Wolsey, and then the Cardinal could inform His Majesty if he felt he needed to know.

He called one of his clerks over, once he'd ensured Clara had quit the room, and sent him with a message to Wolsey. Then he sat back down at his desk and got back to work.

* * *

_30 May, 1529_

And then, suddenly, the waiting was over. All the preparations would be put to the test; tomorrow, the Legatine Court would convene at Blackfriars. And today, the Sunday before, seemed less like a day of rest and more like the deep breath before a plunge.

"You seem very calm," Clara commented mildly as she settled down into a chair beside him in the Billingsgate cellar where the week's sermon was being held. They had been unable to walk together today, due to the distance and their duties—a pity, since it was a lovely spring day, and they had not had much time together of late.

"Do I?" Thomas inquired lightly, arching his eyebrows and giving her a lopsided smile. He didn't feel very calm; it felt as though there was a tight knot somewhere inside his guts. Though since he refused to allow it to affect his behaviour, he supposed he did appear to be the very picture of serenity.

"Comparatively, yes," Clara nodded. "Her Majesty has spent the entire day at her prie-dieu—which, I suppose, is not unusual—and everyone is very tense. Bessie Perris got her ears boxed by Anne Clifford for giggling too loudly," she informed him, sounding slightly indignant—though that was likely due to the over-stern punishment for a trifling offense than any real feelings for the Perris maid. "I hear Lady Anne and His Majesty were closeted together alone for hours after dinner," she went on, gossiping as was her usual wont as they waited for the preacher to arrive.

Thomas had little interest in the court hearsay as such (especially since he was likely aware of much of it long before most other palace inhabitants), but it amused him to listen to Clara's interpretation of it. It was also quite informative for him to hear what the courtiers were saying—what information was being passed around, how it changed, and who was saying what—and thereby give him ideas about how he might start, quash, or somehow control the rumour mill around Whitehall and Hampton Court. But that was more of a thought experiment than any concrete plans.

"And I heard that when they finally emerged, Lady Anne's gown was dishevelled," Clara added in a whisper, sounding scandalised. "Do you think they... I mean, the court convenes tomorrow, and I know His Majesty believes it will be the matter of mere weeks to get his marriage annulled, so do you think he and Lady Anne... er?" Her cheeks were very rosy by the end of her somewhat piecemeal query, in which she never outright asked that which she wanted to know, seemingly too embarrassed to speak the actual words.

Still, Thomas knew well enough what she was implying. "I very much doubt it," he replied firmly. "Lady Anne is holding out for marriage, and as of now the King is still unable to bestow that upon her." Given what he'd gathered about Anne Boleyn, she wasn't about to jeopardise her career until her crown was a sure thing. He wouldn't have given in at this point, when things were still so uncertain, and he imagined Anne—clever, calculating, resolute Anne—was of similar mind.

Clara seemed to accept his reply, and moved on with a shrug. "I also hear Campeggio has taken to his bed—again," she said with a roll of her eyes. "My brother thinks he'll use his infirmity to put off the opening of the trial again, but I think if Campeggio delays even once more, His Majesty will fly into some kind of rage and throw him out of the country."

He had to restrain a snort at the mental image her words provided. "At this point, I don't think Campeggio will postpone the trial again. If His Majesty didn't have him thrown out of the country, I imagine Cardinal Wolsey would throttle him," Thomas replied, amused. "No, he's taken to his bed to gather his strength, I believe. The trial will open as planned tomorrow, you mark my words."

"I hope so—Maud's cousin Tony has promised to find us good seats," Clara replied without thinking. And he knew it was without thought because the moment she registered what she'd said, she winced. "Not that the spectacle is the only reason I want the trial to commence tomorrow as planned," she immediately began to backtrack, flushing red. "It's just... the tension is getting to everyone, and nothing can move forward while we're all waiting to see what will happen. I think we'll all be glad when things are over and sorted..." Then she apparently realised what 'over and sorted' might entail, since she trailed off into silence with a furrowed brow. She heaved a silent sigh, giving the whole thing up as a bad job, before changing the subject. "Are you going, tomorrow?" she inquired.

"Yes, I'm to attend on His Majesty, and take a place of honour in his booth," Thomas replied, allowing himself to sound pleased at being included. And he was deeply pleased—for a common-born lawyer to take a seat next to the Duke of Suffolk and Viscount Rochford, for a mere secretary to enter the courtroom next to the King of England... that was a rare honour. And it was doubtlessly proof that the King appreciated his hard work and favoured him as a servant, and was therefore an indication that his career was on the upswing.

"Oh, Thomas!" Clara breathed, reaching out to grip his hand. "Thomas, that's marvellous! I'm so very happy for you."

Thomas twisted his hand around to clasp her hand in return, turning his head to meet her shining brown eyes. "As I am, dear Clara. As am I," he agreed.

Royal favour was the key to all his ambitions, and it seemed it was now beginning to turn his way. With the King's favour, he could encourage His Majesty to look kindly on the Lutheran cause, in tandem with Lady Anne. Between the two of them, they might even be able to steer the King, and thereby England, away from the cesspool of Rome and into the clear waters of true Christianity. That was the outcome he desired above all things. But he also had a thought for himself and his family, were he to be the recipient of the King's bounty. There would perhaps be lands and stewardships for Richard and Gregory, and even better marriages for the girls. And perhaps, if the regal favour was particularly generous, he himself might even be able to openly court and marry Lady Tyrell, with no backlash from her father or Spencer.

_Lady Clara Cromwell_, his mind whispered, like it had that night in Rome when the future had spread out before him like a rich turkey carpet. He remembered the way it felt, as though his chest was a stock pot boiling over with possibilities. He felt it again now, sitting in a cellar next to the woman he hoped he could one day marry with her soft white hand held in his. Tomorrow, it would begin; his future, Clara's future, England's future hinged on the outcome of this trial.

Thomas bent his elbow and brought Clara's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the backs of her fingers. Then he looked over to meet her dark eyes, and smiled. And as the priest finally entered the room to begin the sermon, he said softly, knowing she would hear, "Anything is possible now."

* * *

_31 May, 1529_

It was all Cromwell could do to keep his face composed as he walked towards the Blackfriars complex. He was at the side of the King of England, surrounded by the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk and Lord Rochford, walking through streets thronged with cheering people, and he was there as no one's servant but the king's. This was, he thought (and not for the first time that morning), quite possibly the most amazing, unlikely thing that had ever happened to him. Had someone said to him even five years ago, when he was still in Wolsey's employ and high in his favour, being considered for the post of the King's secretary, that he would one day accompany His Majesty and some of the premier nobles in England as though he were an equal... he would've laughed in their face.

Or rather, he supposed, he would have nodded courteously, offered them something to drink to soothe their obviously overtaxed mind, and then laughed himself silly behind closed doors.

But here he was, striding up the priory steps to the chapel on the heels of Henry VIII. '_Thou art the God that doest wonders'_, Cromwell said silently to himself, making the quotation into a praise and a prayer that he sent up to Heaven as he passed the doors of the hall.

The theatre was already occupied by the judges at the front, and presided over by the red-clad forms of Cardinals Wolsey and Campeggio. It was also packed full of people, many in the rich gowns and jewels of courtiers. Cromwell cast his eyes here and there as he followed the nobles to the booth where he was privileged enough to sit, trying to spot Clara—or, failing that, her brother or Anthony Knivert, with whom she was attending. But though he peered at what seemed like every face in the hall, he couldn't find her.

Feeling slightly disappointed, Cromwell settled back into his seat (next to Lord Rochford), and waited for the Queen to arrive. He judged that Her Majesty was approaching when the sound of cheering outside grew even louder. Despite everything, Queen Katherine was very popular and loved generally by the English people. Especially the citizens of London.

The heavy wooden doors swung open, and he rose in tandem with everyone else as the Queen swept into the theatre, sailing down the aisle like a stately barge, propelled by sails of rich black velvet. Instinctively, Cromwell began to tally up the worth of her outfit, and concluded that the cloth of the gown itself was worth nearly as much as all the pearls adorning it. Especially when you considered the fineness of the velvet, and the quality of the dye—it was so dark a black it was nearly purple.

Once both the King and the Queen took their seats on opposing sides of the dais (Cromwell privately thought of it as a stage, recalling Clara's throwaway comment about getting good seats; he hoped Sir Anthony had come through for her), the rest of the audience was seated as well, and Cardinal Campeggio did his best to stand as he recited the opening benediction: "_In nomine patris, filiis, et spiritu sancti_."

"Amen," the crowd murmured, including Cromwell, though it left a slight sour taste in his mouth.

Campeggio remained standing, if you could call it standing when he hunched so low, and began to speak. "I declare this legatine court, commissioned by his Holiness Pope Clement, is now in session. And all that is said here is said under oath, and in the presence of God Almighty," he intoned, his reedy, accented voice as stern as he could make it. "I call upon His Majesty to speak first as to this matter."

The King stood regally from his seat, and nodded graciously towards the panel of churchmen before turning to face the gallery, comprised of both bishops and spectators. "Your Eminences know well what cause I have to be here," Henry began, ostensibly addressing the clerics but actually directing his voice out into the audience. "It concerns some scruples I have regarding my marriage which prick my conscience. I have consulted widely to discover the truth, and I have read in Leviticus that it was against God's law, and a sin, for me to marry my brother's wife." He paused for dramatic effect, and Cromwell had to admire his monarch's natural showmanship. Henry was playing the crowd like a lute, and they were all hanging on his words. "Your Eminences, I am not the only one who questions the validity of my marriage. All of my bishops share my doubts, and they have signed a petition to put the matter to question."

But then the King's monologue was abruptly interrupted by a protest from—who else?—Bishop Fisher. "My Lords, I tell you now I never signed my name to any such document," Fisher objected indignantly, hurling himself to his feet. "And if it appears there—"

Wolsey glowered down at the Bishop of Rochester from his lofty position on the dais and interrupted sternly, "The court has not invited you to speak, your grace."

"And if it appears there," Fisher insisted, ignoring Wolsey's chastisement, "Bishop Tunstall wrote it, without my consent!"

Tunstall puffed himself up like an offended goose, glaring across the aisle at his accuser. He looked as though he were about to struggle to his feet and start brawling with Fisher like a pair of Shoreditch fishwives. Cromwell was almost looking forward to it, if for nothing else but the sheer absurdity of it, even as it made him roll his eyes inwardly. Behold the priests of the Catholic Church.

Wolsey, however, was unwilling to book further disruption. "He has the floor; sit down, sir!" the Archbishop of York snapped, growing more fractious as murmurs broke out through the gallery.

But then the King swept in and quelled the discord immediately "I'm not going to argue with you now," he said, barely raising his voice. However, everyone immediately quieted in order to hear him. "After all, you are but one man," he added, with the faintest hint of withering scorn in his voice. Then Henry picked the thread of his narrative back up, and once again began to spin for his listeners. "As for the main issue: if I am asked why I waited so long to bring this question to trial, I shall answer truthfully that it was the great love that I bore for Her Majesty which prevented me doing so. It is I myself who bear all responsibility for my conscience which troubles and doubts me."

This was a good tack to take, Cromwell acknowledged, and he himself had advised His Majesty to do so. However, he couldn't help but wonder how many of the audience really believed it. He knew the King himself did, with all his heart... but he also knew the royal heart had been goaded on in no small measure by the charms of Anne Boleyn.

Henry finished his brief with incomparable dignity: "Gentlemen of the court, I ask for one thing and one thing only: justice." Thus having spoken his piece, the King of England seated himself back onto his throne.

Cardinal Wolsey thus took control of the courtroom, his voice ringing out with not inconsiderable authority. "In a moment, the court will call upon the Queen's Majesty to reply to the King's statement, but first, I must tell the court that the Queen has sought, through her advisors, to question the competence of this court to try her case."

Shocked and scandalised murmurs broke out across the gallery, and Cromwell couldn't suppress a quick quirk of his lips. He had carried that information to the Cardinal, and Clara had brought it to him. He wondered where Clara was, if she was in the theatre, and what she thought of hearing intelligence she had unearthed presented to the world. Was she feeling elated? Proud? Shocked? He'd have to ask her about it later; for himself, he was feeling all three on her behalf, as well as a measure of smugness that he had been able to discover such a jewel, and that he'd had the good sense to make use of it.

"Further," Wolsey was saying, "she questions the impartiality of her judges. And finally, she contends that this matter is already in the hands of a higher authority—namely the Pope—and therefore can only be tried in Rome."

Bless you, Clara, for ferreting out such damaging information. While the English people loved Queen Katherine, they were still suspicious of foreigners, and there were plenty of people who would be muttering darkly about her desire to see the matter settled in a foreign court by foreign judges. Such mutterings would likely be fed by Boleyn gold, inciting people to spread those rumours and remind them that Katherine was Spanish, and that she held Spain more dear than England.

"Now," Wolsey went on, after a momentary pause to let the outrage sink in, "as to the first matter, Cardinal Campeggio and I can confirm that we have the necessary authorization from His Holiness to try this matter here. Further, we reject any notion of prejudice on our part, and will continue to try this case here as we have been appointed. So, I call upon Her Majesty Queen Katherine to address the court," he finished, looking to the Queen as though he hadn't just spent the last minute utterly undermining her entire case.

Queen Katherine gave Wolsey a look that could've stripped the flesh from his bones; Cromwell knew that Her Majesty and the Cardinal were not good friends at the best of times, but now it seemed that the feud had taken on a new virulence. Then the queen looked across at her husband, who was studiously avoiding her eyes, before rising and turning to look at the gallery, which had fallen silent with anticipation.

Then, to everyone's surprise, the Queen moved to where the King sat and fell on her knees at his feet.

"My Lord," Katherine began beseechingly, keeping her focus on her husband as the entire room broke out into gasps and shocked whispers. The King himself looked horrified, and tried to make her rise, but the queen would not be moved. "Sir," she begged, "I beseech you, for the love that has been between us, let me have justice and right. Give me some pity and compassion for I am a poor woman and a stranger, born out of your dominion. I have no friends here, and no counsel. I flee to you, as head of justice in this realm."

Her voice grew louder, intended to be audible to all corners of the theatre chamber: "I call God and all the world to witness that I have been to you a true, humble, and obedient wife, ever comfortable to your will and pleasure. I have loved all those who you have loved for your sake, whether or not I had cause, whether they be my friends or enemies." And Cromwell didn't miss the significant glance the Queen cast towards the booth in which he was seated with Suffolk, Norfolk, and Rochford. "By me you have had many children, although it has pleased God to call them from this world. But when you had me at first, I take God as my judge, I was a true maid without touch of man," she insisted adamantly, before finishing, voice low but sharp, "And whether or not it be true, I put it to your conscience."

If Cromwell had admired the King's showmanship, it was nothing compared to the overwhelming admiration that suffused him at Katherine's. Such high courage, such eloquence! God did her a disservice by not making her a man; she could have outdone all the heroes of history. But more than that, he felt, God had done her a disservice by taking her children. Her son, had he lived, would have been a most formidable king. The sacrifices that had to be made for reform, he thought with a pang of regret. Cromwell did not regret much, but he did regret what would have to happen to Katherine of Aragon in order to advance the Lutheran religion.

Meanwhile, the Queen was still staring at the king, as if willing him to respond to her. Henry, however, was pointedly not meeting Katherine's eyes; he had not done so during her entire speech. Just as tellingly, he was silent.

Katherine rose from her knees gracefully, pale eyes still fixed on her husband. Then she dropped into a curtsey, her dignity absolute, and moved slowly off the dais, extending a hand to her usher and allowing him to escort her down the aisle and back towards the exit. Was she leaving? Now? Before anything had even happened?

Cromwell could only barely hear Campeggio's incredulous aside, sounding just as confused as himself. "Now what is she doing?" he asked of Wolsey, though in the tone of someone who is not so much expecting an answer and more of someone who can't believe the stupidity of those around him.

At a gesture from Wolsey, the crier struck the floor with his staff three times and cried, "Katherine, Queen of England, come back into the court!"

Cromwell rose to his feet as she passed, an island of serenity and dignity untouched by the chaos breaking out around her. The crier called for her again, but the Queen did not even deign to notice. He watched her and her usher share some dialogue on the way out, wondering what they were saying, but knowing that even Clara's keen ears probably couldn't discern what it was over the shocked murmurs in the chamber and the raucous cheers that spilled into the building as the Queen departed.

Wolsey, up at the front of the building, was fuming. "She spits in the face of papal law," he was shouting to Campeggio. "She holds this court in contempt!"

And though Rochford and Norfolk were talking among themselves in what would surely be interesting listening, Cromwell's attention was caught by Wolsey, up at the front. His patron was standing and staring at the King as though the sight of His Majesty struck him to the heart with terror. He couldn't see the King's face, so Cromwell wasn't sure what Henry's expression was... but judging from Wolsey's, it was not at all pleased.

Cromwell glanced over to where Norfolk and Rochford, Wolsey's two great enemies, had their heads bent together. He knew they were further scheming ways to use this turn of events to bring his Cardinal down. And he knew this certainly looked bad for Wolsey. Only time, he supposed, would tell whether or not he could or would come out on top. But things were suddenly much less clear cut for the King and for Wolsey and their hopes of a speedy annulment.

* * *

Later that night, as he was preparing to leave Whitehall for Shoreditch, a figure appeared in his peripheral vision. Still somewhat on alert from his time back in Rome, where he had not been entirely confident in his safety, Cromwell startled violently, spinning around and putting a hand to the knife he still concealed in his sleeve. Thankfully, he registered who was beside him before he unsheathed the blade and stabbed... but he thought she recognised the movement, since she shrank back a little and stared at him with wide brown eyes.

"You startled me, Clara," Thomas said, once he was master of himself, taking his hand from his sleeve.

"My apologies," she said softly, and when she came closer she made some deliberate noise with her brocade skirts. "I saw you today, in the courtroom. You looked very well, and I was happy to see you with such exalted company."

"Thank you," he smiled, reaching out to touch her arm and assure her that he was fine and that there were no hard feelings. Then he changed from a touch to a grip and pulled her into a dark alcove where they could have more private conversation out of sight, steering her around to let the weak light illuminate her face as much as possible, so he could read her expression. "I could not find you, myself, though I looked. Where were you standing?"

"Maud and I were up in the loft above you. Her cousin Tony got us seats there," she explained.

"Ah, that would be why I was unable to see you. I looked." Clara smiled, but still looked a little pensive and said nothing. Thomas eyed her a little, and wondered what she was thinking. "I was very impressed with Her Majesty today," he ventured, knowing he had to draw her out and wagering that whatever occupied her mind had something to do with the Queen. "She has a high courage—much like another lady of my acquaintance."

That drew a quick twitch of a smile from Clara, but didn't remove the furrow between her brows. Thomas waited quietly, knowing she would speak soon enough if he let her. And she did. "The Queen won't go back," Clara blurted suddenly. "To the trial. She doesn't recognise its authority, and so she won't go back. What will happen if she does not?"

Presumably this was something Clara had overheard in the Queen's rooms, and once again Thomas applauded his foresight in placing her there. She was repaying his investment in her already. "Things will carry on in her absence," he replied with a shrug. "Only she will have no chance to speak for herself."

"Will that matter?" Clara asked, looking up at him with her big, honest dark eyes. "If she's there or not, will it matter to the verdict?"

Thomas looked back at her, assessing her open face in the faint, flickering light of their shadowy alcove. That was a surprisingly cynical question for Clara, and he was unsure for a moment about how to answer her. Then he decided to follow his own advice and give her a truth: "It will matter very much," he said. "Having the witnesses see her there will doubtless have a very profound effect on the proceedings. Or not, as the case may be. Were I her counsel, I would convince her to attend no matter her personal feelings. I doubt Fisher will."

"He won't," Clara answered. "Her Majesty does not wish to attend any further, and no one will dare make her."

"Hmm," Thomas hummed thoughtfully. He wondered how it would affect the trial, whether the Queen's absence would be a burden or a boon. For himself, he could only imagine Katherine's absence harming her cause, though it would also harm the trial itself by casting doubt on the legitimacy of the proceedings, especially when paired with her formal protest. He imagined Wolsey would find it much easier with the Queen's presence at the hearing, but for himself... he wasn't sure. He hadn't weighed all the options yet, or imagined the potential outcomes. And thus he supposed it was a good thing that no one was likely to ask his opinion. "Will you stay with her, during the trial? Or will you attend?"

Clara shrugged a little, ducking her head before straightening back up, allowing him to see the conflict in her eyes. "I don't know. I... want to know what's going to happen, but... I should stay with the queen, shouldn't I?" she said, biting her lower lip. "I am one of her ladies. I know she would not begrudge me, or any of us, our choice to attend or not, but... if I... she should trust me, shouldn't she? So I should stay."

Presuming that this was an oblique way of asking for his advice, Thomas gave some thought to the matter. It was true that Clara's keen ears would be more valuable in the soft quiet of the Queen's confidence than as one witness among many in the clamour of the Blackfriars theatre. "Perhaps it would be wise for you to remain with the queen," he allowed. "I'm sure your brother will bring you news of the daily happenings in court, as will I."

Clara nodded jerkily, teeth still worrying at her lower lip. She lapsed into silence again, and Thomas waited for her to speak her thoughts. "What will happen to her?" she finally wondered. "To the Queen. If the Cardinals rule against her, what will happen to her?"

That was something easy for him to answer. "She will be styled not as Queen of England, but as Princess Dowager of Wales. Still, every honour will be given her, and she will still be the second lady at court, after the new Queen," he assured her, knowing Clara was likely fretting about the fate of her kindly mistress. He took a chance and reached out to take her hand, brushing his thumb across the soft skin. "Do not worry for her, Clara. Her Majesty will be well provided for, should her marriage be undone." And he brought her hand to his mouth for a kiss.

He could feel more than hear the soft gasp that passed her lips at the contact. Her fingers tightened on his, shifting to grip his hand as much as he gripped hers, and Clara took a step closer. "Twenty more days," she whispered, before pressing a kiss of her own on his fingers.

The scent of her—jasmine and roses, the scent of his claim to her—combined with the feeling of her lips on his skin was stirring, and he drew in a quiet breath before releasing it silently though his nose. "So you're counting too?" he quipped wryly, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers, nearly touching their noses together and bringing their clasped hands down to rest on his chest.

"Perhaps it is wicked or unfaithful of me... but yes, I'm counting," she confessed in a whisper, lifting her eyes, black in the darkness, to his.

Something hot and heavy sparked in the air between them, and Thomas felt his heart begin to beat faster. They were so close; it would be an easy matter to duck his head a bit more and steal a kiss. To back her up against the wall of the alcove and press his body against hers. To slide his hands down to her hips and lift her up, to wrap her legs around his waist, to hitch up her skirt and pick up where they left off in February. Or, at the very least, steal her back to Austin Friars and peel her clothes off and then pick up where they left off in February. What were twenty mere days to the months of frustrated longing they'd already been suffering?

He was in within a hair's-breadth of throwing caution to the wind and doing just that when Clara stiffened in his grasp. Presumably she'd heard something too soft for his ears, which presaged an interruption. She nervously slipped out of his hold and hurried to the entrance of the niche, peering carefully around the corner in the direction she'd come. That interruption was perhaps for the best, Thomas allowed, taking a deep breath and recollecting himself. Especially if he was within moments of kissing her in a shadowy alcove in Whitehall, of all places. Subtle that was not.

Whatever the noise was, it was either no longer approaching or no longer threatening. Possibly both. Clara relaxed with a soundless sigh, and turned to give him a rueful smile. Apparently she had also felt the spark and the kindling lust, and was also aware of how fortuitous the disruption was. "I should return, before I'm missed," she murmured, her cheeks pink.

"Of course," Thomas agreed, pointedly leaving at least an arm's-length of space between them. "Will we have the pleasure of your company tomorrow?"

"Yes, unless the Queen wants me for something in particular, but I don't think that's likely," Clara replied. Her sweet smile turned a little wry as she edged out of the alcove. "Twenty days."

"Twenty days," Thomas repeated, keeping his hands to himself as he watched her hurry back towards the palace.

* * *

**A/N part deux: **So, I finished this one right before NaNoWriMo kicks off. There probably won't be any updates in November for that reason, but there will be some after! Especially because this is my NaNoWriMo project! (And yes, I know that's now how it's supposed to work, but a group of friends and I are having our own NaNoWriMo and Lauren says I can work on previously-started projects if I wanna. So there. I do what I want, Thor!) So come December, there should be another update, pending any acts of God. Huzzah!

Happy pre-emptive Thanksgiving to those who'll celebrate it in November!


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